


eyes blue like your ice cold heart

by finaljoy



Series: i have lost people and found them again [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Drama & Romance, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Natasha Needs a Hug, Physical Abuse, but so is Clint, don't worry i'm crying too, natasha is a very damaged person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 97,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finaljoy/pseuds/finaljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha survived by selling her time and body to men who couldn't make real relationships work, men like Clint Barton. And though he hurts her heart with his kindness and secrets, she needs all he can give, especially with a vicious pimp holding her life in his fist. Hopefully it will be enough for her to finally face the problems she has denied for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the story of a woman and a man

**Author's Note:**

> This story is much heavier than my typical fare, but I find it to be incredibly important. The idea that a person can fall so low is absolutely intriguing, but even more important is the quest for them to claw back out. I hope that I properly convey this with my story.
> 
> _General warning: allusions to/scenes of domestic abuse of various, brief allusions to/scenes of sexual and physical assault, mentions of child prostitution, mentions of drug use, all scattered throughout. Warnings posted as necessary._

"Just One Dance"

Don't know why you play hard to get  
I'm here to kiss away any thoughts of regret  
A silk tie from Siam shows elegance and class  
Handsome as the heavens that a film would never cast

But underneath the mask I see the skin of a man  
Smooth and seductive who's really got a plan  
It's drawing me in, magnetically to you  
You haven't got forever, but I got that too

I'm like the smoke on your fire  
Smoldering endless desire  
How long will your flame burn

All it cost is just a minute now  
For one dollar you can show me how  
I'll take your hand and then your worries too  
In just one dance I'll make your dreams come true

Caro Emerald

* * *

**it is a system and she is** **screwing it up.**

It was still cold this time of year. Yet she soldiered on with the short skirts and the low necklines, because that was what lured them in, and they were what paid the bills. Better a few hours of discomfort in a week than entire days of it.

It was a clean operation she helped run, she had to admit. The Landlord housed all of the girls, and then handed out their names and details whenever a customer asked for something they could provide. Natasha was higher up on the list than most, because she was cold and straightforward. She did her job, smiled when she was supposed to, and obeyed the Landlord's every word.

That was how she had met him. She was street walking, slinking up and down, hoping to catch someone's eye. A voice behind Natasha caught her attention, making her turn. There wasn't much special about it, and normally she would have tuned it out along with all of the other noise that infested the streets at this hour, but at the same time, he was... _totally different_  from everything else.

"Excuse me," he said, and his voice had actually sounded like he cared about the way he addressed her. Like she deserved respect like every other human being.

Natasha eyed the man, unsure of what he wanted. Usually men just called at her, rude considering they were enlisting her services and most of the time didn't even have the excuse of being drunk.

His suit was well cut, and the watch on his wrist probably went along with a sleek, expensive car he didn't dare drive around this neighborhood. His face was worn and serious, and his light blue eyes were dark and far too pretty for her own good.

"Uh, yeah?" Natasha immediately wanted to kick herself. She had been surprised into speaking,and her accent had bled through. She sounded like some poor illegal immigrant that had been dragged out of her country and forced into the trade, as opposed to some stubborn idiot that had dug her own grave and was casually sleeping her way into it. "What do you need?" she tacked on, trying to sound a little more refined.

"Are you on the job?" he asked, and she blinked in surprise. She was expecting him to be one of those naive do-gooders that asked her if she was lost, or if she had enough money for the bus or a new coat. Natasha was always good at shouldering them away, and had her response half on her lips by the time she understood the question.

"N- _yeah_."

"You sure?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. She pursed her lips, trying to keep from saying something rude and scaring him away, because she  _really_  needed the cash. Natasha put her hands in her coat pockets instead, trying to push away her irritation.

" _Yes_ ," she said testily, embarrassed at how she was fumbling all over the place.  _Years_  she'd been in the business, and yet she was acting like some absent minded kid.

"Well, alright then," the man smiled, grin easy and promising that Natasha wouldn't have to work too hard tonight.

**she is a prostitute, he is her customer.**

Despite the fact that he was a bit unorthodox in the way he went about actually picking her up, it was clear to Natasha that this man had done this all before. Some men bumbled about, but he was to the point. He didn't toss her around the room, though, which was something she was grateful for. The Landlord got upset when one of the girls came back with bruises all over them. It put the other customers off, and sometimes they even refused to pay full price.

The hotel room was nice enough. The men that rented out hotel rooms for her generally found dumps that just offered walls to hide behind and a mattress to fall onto, but not this one. The clean walls and neat bed were blank, offering no condemnation or encouragement..

She glanced over at him, watched as he pulled off his coat and suit jacket.

"Do this often?" she asked, noting just how relaxed he was, like they were chatting over coffee at a diner.

"A few times," he said, raising a teasing eyebrow.

"Me too." His laugh was low and actually amused, a good sign.

"What's your name?" he asked, and she paused in the act of pulling out her earrings. Natasha gave him her best street walker smile and purred, "Whatever you want."

He smiled and nodded, looking at his hands as if to say he should have expected that answer.

"Alright. What's the name your parents gave you? Or the one you go by, which ever."

"…Natasha. What's yours?"

The man raised an eyebrow and looked her in the face as he pulled off his shoes. Most girls didn't ask questions about their customers, unless it had to do with work. As a general rule, the customer's name, age, and relationship status was off limits unless they brought it up themselves. She made her face blank and unassuming as she waited, even though she was a little uncomfortable with his clear gaze. He was searching for something in her, and Natasha had no idea as to what so she could hide it from sight.

"This a new policy I haven't heard about?" he asked, yet again proving that he had done this so many times. She shrugged, leaning against the table and trying to play it cool until she got an answer. His question didn't sound bothered in the slightest, and if anything, was a little joking. Hope nudged its way into her chest, because men that were in good moods to begin with always paid better.

"Just a question. Seems a bit more proper, don't you think?"

He looked at her a moment, weighing her in a way she  _knew_  she didn't like. His blue eyes seemed to look straight through her lies and facades, right to her mangled and uncertain core.

"You're one of Calvin Hughes', yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm one of the Landlord's," she said, voice tight. None of his girls called him by his name. It didn't fit him.

(and he would never allow such familiarity from the girls.)

"I heard that he has a good set of girls that handled their own details, but I don't think I really believed it before," he chuckled, allowing Natasha to finally breathe again. He had moved a little closer, leaning against the wall by the door and acting every bit as casual as she was.

"We've moving forward with the times," she said, a coy smile on her lips. "Makes things a little bit more personal, but not too cluttered and confusing."

He grinned back, something far too bright and happy for the situation, though underneath there was the exact same dark undertone that hers had. It heightened the lines in his face, but rather than make him seem older, more worn out, it only made his little boy blue eyes seem brighter, taking delight in such a forbidden, immoral act. Natasha liked that spark, no matter the reason. She blinked and focused somewhere else as he kept it up, convinced that she was about to go cross eyed if she kept staring at him as he moved closer.

"Alright, fine. Clint Barton. Want my social security and PIN next?" His voice was low and lovely, and for a moment, Natasha wasn't sure who was supposed to be seducing whom. She grit her teeth, snapped at herself to get a  _hold_ , and get to work.

"No. A name will do," she smiled. He cocked an eyebrow. By now, he was so, so close. His hands were on her hips, his lips practically on hers. His voice was rougher, now that he was testing his restraint.

"Do I get a last name, to make us even?

"Romanoff." She always found it odd to tell these men her name. Most other girls had fake ones, ones that seemed exotic and exciting for the bored, horny men hiring them. With the Landlord, though, no stage names were used, no special pretenses or false identities. They were the same creatures on the streets as in cheap motels and in their own, private rooms. He was also careful to pick up stray girls with no connections, no ties back to the 'real world', people cut out of the system. It was cleaner that way, apparently.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he asked, voice a murmur as he ran his hands along her sides. His words were kisses on the air just before her mouth, tempting her, taunting her, daring her to make the first move. "That's a pretty name."

She gave a smile that he probably couldn't see, but could certainly taste as he gave in and kissed her, fierce and desperate.

**she doesn't care about him, no way she could. he isn't even interesting.**

The room was still rather dark, that strange time between dawn and night. Natasha sighed, and closed her eyes. She could pretend to be a sleep for a little while longer, then it was out and about once more.

Clint shifted beside her, though he didn't make any noise. He had turned out to be the same as every other veteran to adultery. His smiles and kind words had been a front, just as hers had been. She shouldn't have considered them being anything else.

Natasha didn't know what was wrong with her. This never would have happened a few months ago. She had kept her head down and done her job, like she was supposed to. She couldn't afford something more.

**not even when he wakes up, and doesn't touch her.**

Clint shifted again, and by now, Natasha was sure that he was awake. He sighed like she had, sounded like he ran his hand over his face. She waited, waited, waited.

Natasha could feel the heat of his hand as he reached over to her. She expected him to stroke her back or arm or something, which was pretty typical for the morning after. Sometimes it made her skin crawl, and sometimes it felt so wonderful she didn't want them to ever stop. She hadn't decided how she felt about Clint yet.

Natasha frowned, realizing that he hadn't touched her yet. His hand was just...hovering there, right above her left shoulder, like she was a flame and he was trying to lure some heat back into his fingers.

She shifted, testing him. As soon as she moved, he pulled his hand back, narrowly avoiding the brush of her skin.

Natasha waited a little longer, wanting to see what he did next. Somehow she had the feeling that he would do something unusual, despite her self reprimands.

**it also isn't interesting when he gets up a few minutes later and walks out the door.**

His sigh sounded so, so old. A few moments dragged past, and then he was sitting up. The air was cold on her side as he moved out of the bed, and Natasha couldn't help but shiver.

Clint seemed to notice, as he paused in whatever he was doing to pull the blankets back up around her shoulders.

Natasha listened to him fumble around with his clothes for a moment, padding around the room to collect his things. For a moment, she could sense him standing in front of her. She struggled to make her face smooth as in sleep. This was generally when she was jerked awake, when the quiet illusion was shattered and she had to crawl back home.

The quick shoving off of cash would be awkward as she tried to finish putting her clothes on, but he probably wouldn't care. Some men retreated into the bathroom, hiding from her face and expecting her to be gone by the time they came out, while others watched her blankly as if she were a tv screen. Natasha hoped Clint would at the very least give her space as she pulled on her underwear and her dress and gathered her coat in her arms.

But again, he caught her off guard. He mumbled something to himself and turned away, not even trying to wake her up. At this point, Natasha could keep from cracking open an eye. She squinted at him through her eyelashes, watching him walk over to another piece of clothing on the floor. She closed her eyes as he pulled on his shirt, not wanting to mess things up now.

Natasha held her breath as he sat down on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes, maybe, and then went through a few more seconds of rustling. Then the sound of shoes on the floor, and the door clicking shut.

She waited, unsure of what had just happened. Had he gone to the bathroom? Natasha reluctantly rolled over, frowning when she saw the empty bathroom. Her eyes landed on the door to the hall, then blinked. He had  _left_? That was...an absolute first for her. Why had he just left? Why didn't he wake her up?

A dark thought hit her, and she slammed her fist into the pillows.

He had run away without paying her, that was the only explanation. Why hadn't she guessed, he was probably some scumbag that managed to go around conning prostitutes like her that thought they could sneak a few seconds of extra comfort. No  _wonder_  he had been so relaxed earlier, he hadn't had a reason to worry if he wasn't going to pay her.

**he isn't interesting to her. except for when he put that sticky note on the mirror.**

Natasha flopped back on the bed, so upset with herself for being so  _stupid_  she couldn't even think straight.

Of course, this is what she got for slacking on the job. What would the Landlord say, when she came back and had to explain that someone had cheated her out of a good few hours of money?

The thought sent fear through her stomach. Her numbers had been dropping lately, and she was really counting on tonight to pick them back up. She might not have been the girl of the month, but at least she would be paying her rent and still have some left over.

Natasha reluctantly sat back up, then leaned over to paw at her underwear, which was on the floor. Maybe if she could get back out there fast, there might be someone who would pay for at least an hour...

But no, it was early morning. The chances of someone buying her  _now_  were slim to none.

She pulled on the remainder of her clothes, mood foul.

Natasha slipped on her pumps, wondering if any of the other girls might float her the cash. No, that was ridiculous. If someone came to  _her_  begging even fifteen more dollars, she wouldn't give it to them. She had her own skin to look after.

She looked into the mirror, trying to adjust the scowl off of her face. Her hair was a mess, and her makeup was smudged into a trashy mess. She angrily smeared her arm across her mouth, getting rid of the last mocking remains of lipstick.

Natasha finally noticed the sticky note on the frame of the mirror. She frowned, realized there was nothing on it. She pulled it off, turning the perfect little square in her hands.

**it is blue. like his eyes, she thinks.**

This was certainly an unusual twist, but sticky notes weren't dollar bills. She turned to throw it away, then caught sight of the wad of bills, tucked neatly in the far corner of the desk.

Hope swooped in her stomach, and she grabbed the bills up, rifling through them. Their smell was cloying and almost metallic, but at that moment, it was the relief kissing Natasha on the mouth.

There was a little less than she usually charged, but that was alright! That was more than alright, that was a blessing from God, whom she hadn't really been sure if she liked after everything she'd been put through. She grinned at the bills, so thankful that this strange, strange man hadn't ditched her with nothing that her legs felt weak. Natasha braced herself against the desk, then remembered the sticky note held tightly in her hand.

She brought it up to her eyes, examining it. A blank sticky note, placed on the mirror before Clint left. It was bright blue and slightly crinkled from where she'd held it, but laid relatively flat when she set it down.

Natasha pocketed the cash and turned to leave.

She paused, hand on the door knob. Natasha glanced at the sticky note and sighed.

**she takes it because they haven't left her anything before.**

As she walked back, the sticky note burned in her pocket. It was a secret, a promise, a stupid bit of possibility. She knew that she was marching down a road that she would probably want to sprint back up later, but the promise of something new, something  _different_  to smother out the pointless drudgery of every day was too strong. It was just a sticky note, after all.

The walk back to the boarding house was long and just as cold as the night before, but it gave Natasha time to forget Clint Barton, let her face settle into its typical mask of distance and apathy. By the time she made the block, she was cool and drawn up tight and not offering a care in the world.

The boarding house was narrow, crammed in between two other buildings. The rooms were stacked in beside each other, little boxes that didn't offer much more than a closet and a bed. Even the Landlord's room was small, though he was allowed a touch more space and privacy. The boarding house wasn't a home. It was a dark shell, an alcove for people to huddle into until it was dark enough to go back out again. It was no place to get comfortable.

People flitted by her as she walked through the lobby, quiet and purposeful as they headed out or stumbled in. They avoided eye contact with her, and she didn't say a word as she sauntered past. They were nothing but dust under her heels.

As she walked down her hall, the sticky note seemed to vibrate in her pocket, screaming for someone to notice and snatch it away. She remained nonchalant as she passed girls, ages spread all over the scale. To the younger ones, she even offered a smile, because she was sorry for them, and they had not yet learned how to twist a smile into a gasp of pain.

Natasha couldn't help but take a breath of relief as she crossed into her room. Each girl's room was private, their own little space. Once a person stepped through their doorway, they were subject to the owner's rules. Some girls plastered the walls with posters and magazine cut outs, to pretend that they were normal again, while others left it pessimistically bare, as if to suggest that decoration didn't matter when they were gone.

Natasha tended to lean more towards the sparse side of the scale, leaving her walls and unadorned and the furniture plain. She really only had room for her bed, nightstand, and vanity. The only personal addition she had made was a small picture frame, perched bravely on her nightstand. Her bed, unlike everything else in the room, was utterly chaotic, a nest of pillows and blankets, which often spilled out onto the floor.

She pulled the sticky note out of her pocket, glancing it over before pressing it to her mirror. It had just enough adhesive left on the back for it to stay in place, a little echo of where it had been before.

This was just a one time thing.

* * *


	2. more a rule of thumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that Clint is the enigmatic figure for once. I like being able to look into Natasha's head and it not be clouded up by her training her feelings into nothing.

"Love Affair"

There was a love affair in this building  
The kind of love affair that  
Every respectable building must  
Keep as a legend  
Slowly festering through an  
innocent "by the way" or "have you heard?"

Regina Spektor

* * *

**days go by, yet it always stays on her mirror.**

Natasha kept finding herself looking at the sticky note. It was slightly crinkled from where she had first grabbed it, but she didn't mind. When she walked into her room, that little snap of color was the first thing she looked at, bright and lovely. It mocked her, that frustratingly empty note. It whispered a thousand things she did not want to hear.

It was even worse when she came home from a night's work. Natasha would stumble in and then that sticky note would slap her in the face, bringing memories of tired smiles and cynical, charmingly blue eyes. She wished all of her customers were like Clint. He didn't push, or yell, or demand something for an outrageously low price. He looked at her like a person.

And then Natasha would roll her eyes at herself, because what did she know? What did she know about what he was like when he was on a bender, or when an important check bounced, or when he was in enough of a pinch to have to turn to drastic measures to make sure the lights still turned on? She knew a man's name, and that he liked buying girls. There was nothing there for her to linger over, and it was that thought that hurt her soul almost as much as his strange kindness had.

 _He's not a good person,_ she reminded herself.  _Just_ _a twisted asshole that enjoys playing games. It's nothing. Don't get caught up in it._

And that became her chant,  _don't get caught up,_  because things were hard enough when Natasha kept her head planted firmly in real life, and not some imaginary one.

Of course the sticky note attracted attention. Seemingly useless little bits of stuff in Natasha's room were as common as ostriches on the moon. The few people that were allowed in stared at the sticky note, even though time had passed and it clearly wasn't going anywhere. The paper was like a caged freak show, demanding their attention just as it did with hers.

Perhaps that was why she fixated on it every time she walked into the room. Maybe it was because the sticky note was just so foreign to everything else in her life, it always took her by surprise no matter how many times she saw it.

It was a nice thought, at least.

**when another girl tries to throw it in the trash, she nearly screams and snatches it away.**

When the sticky note fell down one day, Natasha made herself not touch it. She would go to pick it up and move it to the small trashcan, but her hand would catch half way there, hesitate, then pull back. Sometimes she was more conscious of it, staring at the slightly wrinkled blue paper, glaring at it like it was a patch of sticky something on her vanity that had appeared while she was out. A part of Natasha tried to force herself to pick it up, to crumple it and every thought of Clint, but another part of her begged for this bizarre rebellion, plead to leave it be, to do something for herself for  _once._

So it stayed, and she gradually stopped worrying about it.

One day, a younger girl stood outside Natasha's door. She knocked quietly, and Natasha took her time looking up from her magazine to address her.

"What is it?" she asked, and the girl shifted. She was a newer face, looked about eighteen and had frizzy blonde hair that hung sadly around her shoulders. She looked at her hands, focusing on her chipped nail polish.

"Do you have any shoes I could borrow?" she asked after a moment, not wanting to tread too far. No matter what Natasha's numbers were, she still held rank in the Landlord's twisted hierarchy. If she wanted, Natasha could make a girl's life very, very difficult.

"What size do you wear?" Natasha asked, not moving from her nest.

"Nines."

She nodded, tossing the magazine aside.

"I'll see what I got. It won't be a perfect fit, but you're not going to be doing a marathon, are you?"

The girl gave a timid ' _no_ ' from the doorway, waiting for permission to step inside.

Natasha opened her closet, scanning the jumble of shoes.

"You gonna wear that?" she asked, nodding at the girl's clothes. She shrugged, mumbling, "I don't have much better."

"Come here," Natasha said, beckoning with a head nod. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Rae," she said, stepping just far enough in to be standing by the vanity. "Rae Schultz."

"Alright, Rae, how do you do with sling backs?" Natasha asked, holding out a pair of red shoes.

"Uhm, they work, but they wear against the top of my heel." She looked so nervous, standing there and asking even more of Natasha, as though seeing how far she would walk into a lion's den before being mauled. Natasha didn't comment. She knew what the other girls said about her, the frosty Russian girl. Her heart would be made of ice, if she'd had one.

"Pumps, then?"

"Yeah, they'd be fine." Natasha nodded and bent over the bottom of her closet, riffling around to find the shoes.

"Why do you have this here? Everything else is so clean," Rae said, but Natasha wasn't really listening. The pathetic sound of crinkling paper reached Natasha like a candle held to her skirt. She jerked upright, and whirled to stare at Rae.

Natasha's eyes scanned the scene in a second, taking in the absent spark of blue on her vanity and Rae's clenched fist. She sprang up, snarling at the other girl.

_"Don't touch that!"_

Rae jumped, staring at Natasha in utter alarm. She clearly didn't understand the significance of that one piece of paper in such a deliberately clean room, but Natasha didn't care about being angry, she was more terrified of losing that stupid sticky note.

" _Give—_ give it to me," she said, forcing her voice back to normal levels. Rae's eyes were wide as she held out her hand, confusion and terror scrawled across her face.

"I-I-I'm sorry," the girl blurted, "I didn't know, I just thought it was a piece of trash, I didn't— _I'm sorry Natasha_."

"It's fine," she said, voice stiff. "Just…take the shoes."

Natasha grabbed a pair of black pumps that weren't  _too_  scuffed, and pushed them into the girl's arms. Rae hurried out, looking like she was about to burst into tears.

Natasha stood there a moment, making herself breathe and not start screaming because she just  _knew_  what this loss of control meant.

_Don't get caught up, don't get caught up, Natasha, just don't do it!_

Yeah, what a joke.

**it was important. the other girls laughed when they found out.**

It wasn't a good sign. All of the careful independence she had carved out for herself, buying her own food, keeping her own schedule, doing whatever was necessary to earn good grace with the Landlord, it was all  _pointless._ She was losing her mind over one stupid, inconsequential piece of paper, left behind by a customer that couldn't car  _less._

Natasha dropped the paper, turning her back on it and folding her arms, feeling like a fussy child.

It wasn't a good sign, no, but it wasn't completely horrible. She could fix this, she could change it, she could pull it back to some semblance of normal. She had become strangely, perversely attached to a sticky note, alright, fine. It wasn't like Clint was coming back, though. It had been  _three weeks_ since she had seen Clint. If men wanted to hire her again, they would come back within two weeks. He wasn't interested, she'd never see him again. Good.

Natasha reluctantly turned back around to face the paper. She smoothed it out, quietly regretting the way it had been crushed in Rae's hand. It was battered and sad and dust covered the adhesive on the back, but still it was not moved to the trashcan. It was just a piece of paper, anyway. A piece of paper that reminded her so perfectly of his eyes.

There were repercussions of showing attachment in the boarding house, and Natasha felt them soon enough. Girls hissed at Natasha as she walked down the hall, sneering over her apparent insanity. Natasha ignored them, ignored the jeers of her getting upset over  _just a piece of paper!,_ and it was no  ** _wonder_** _no one's hiring her, unstable as she is._ There were worse things curled up in the bones of the boarding house.

The Landlord, for example. He was an entirely different threat than the girl's jagged, biting remarks. Their wounds faded.

Natasha was certain he knew about the sticky note, but she had no idea if he had determined it a problem. Then again, she wouldn't until he carried out her punishment. He was unpredictable, as likely to laugh over something as to wreck a girl's room for it. And if someone said the right things, implied the right reasons...a sticky note and low numbers could go from coincidence to trouble.

After the encounter with Rae, Natasha learned caution. Next time might not be so innocent.

She moved the sticky note from her vanity mirror to a mostly empty drawer, a hiding place.

 _Like I'm guilty,_  she thought, and clenched her teeth.

**he calls for her again, just as unassuming in his suit and strangely personal smile.**

Then one day, Natasha got a call. The Landlord was pleased when he told her, the quiet congratulations on her snaring another regular coating his easy drawl. Natasha hid the surprise at the news, and casually asked who it was.

Clint Barton, he said.

 _Oh no,_  her stomach said.

Despite everything, he had decided to see her again, to torment her and make her wonder just what she had left to lose. Natasha closed her eyes after the Landlord left, allowing this one moment of weakness. Dread filled her steps as she returned to her room, because she didn't want another encounter with this man. He would either be just as annoyingly intriguing as before, or he would be so much less, and she didn't want to have to look into his face and see where her memory had led her astray.

But on she went, because that was her job. She had been given an address, and a time, and she needed to go, unless she wanted to deal bigger problems.

The walk to the motel wasn't bad, no one called at her or leered as she walked. Natasha could pretend, just for a few moments, that she was another New Yorker, that she had a home and a family and she was going to them, going to find their comfort after a long, tiring day. She was something else, some different combination of choices and mistakes and heartaches. And then she was ice, allowing nothing to make it past her frozen hide.

Natasha rapped on the motel room door, huffing out a breath as she glanced at the parking lot below her. The door opened, and Natasha had a bare second to take in those big blue eyes, the undoubtedly expensive collared shirt and grey suit pants, the ruffled brown hair, and lines on his face that said he was so,  _so_  tired. Then Clint broke into a little boy's smile, pleasure washing away his exhaustion.

"Natasha," he said, offering warmth like he had known her for years, and not hired her for sex that one time, and then left her to pick up her underwear and her pride alone. "Come on in."

Natasha gave him a smile that was all honey and promises, swearing that whatever happened when he closed the door would stay right there, wrapped up between their chests and escaping their lips only when it was dark and they couldn't see the shame on each other's faces. His smile changed, the dark, sinful, and deliciously self-indulgent side bleeding out and making him look  _entirely_ capable of hiring a prostitute and using her for all she was worth.

Natasha smiled back, smooth, promising, enchanting. He saw what he was supposed to see, nothing more, nothing less.

"That's a lovely color on you, by the way," he said, taking her coat once she shrugged out of it to reveal a dark green dress. She flashed another smile over her shoulder, because that was what she was supposed to do. She couldn't help but notice how strange his comment had been. He complimented the color, not the shape, not the cut. That was something people said for beauty, not lust.

He draped her coat on a chair, sharply contrasting the haphazard way his suit jacket had been tossed aside. Natasha looked back to him, smile as glossy as ever.

**she wants things to be over with, but he clearly does not want to comply.**

"So, how have you been?" he asked, the question sounding utterly bizarre in her ears. Even though she knew that it was just a starter piece, nothing of worth, Natasha had to give him a look. Clint laughed, recalling a bit too late that their relationship was not one of casual small talk.

"Right," he murmured, settling in close to her, hands on her hips and his mouth brushing her ear. "Right, it's considered tacky to talk about other men when you're with a customer."

"Not to mention bad for business. So many jealous types out there, you know?"

Clint chuckled in her ear, something that wasn't quite low and husky enough to get her that extra buck, but was certainly getting there.

Natasha ran a finger along his belt, not inviting him closer, but not chasing him away. She wanted him to stop talking, because he had spun her brain out quite nicely the last time. She wasn't there to think, she was there to make him feel like the most valuable, impressive man in the world. Natasha wanted to do this right, and absolutely nothing else.

"Hold on a second," she said when he tried to kiss her full on. Clint hesitated, leaning back to look at her. He gave a smile that seemed to be hers alone. He fished out his wallet, and pulled out a series of bills. He handed them to Natasha and asked, "That enough?"

She glanced over them, then smiled in return.

"That's just fine," she said, dropping the bills on the table. She tilted her head at him, as if giving permission. Clint pulled her close, the warmth of his hands pressing through the fabric of her dress.

"Don't worry, Natasha," he whispered into her ear, and it sounded like a gift. "I'm not the jealous type."

**his touch is so, so soft, even though the calluses on his hands are rough.**

He kissed her, mouth catching the corner of hers and kissing her again and again and again, but it wasn't wild and desperate like last time. Each little touch and kiss was perfectly gentle, a promise that she was the most valuable thing in the world. Even when he hoisted her onto the table, each touch was precise.

Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, and she kissed the spot just beneath his ear, making him let out a shuddery breath. Clint slid a hand down her thigh, stopping at the top of her boot zipper. He kissed her collarbone as he pulled the boot off, tossing it aside. Natasha wound her fingers up in his hair, kicking off her other boot once he had it unzipped.

There were calluses on his fingers, grating against his expensive watch and fine suit and polished shoes. They made her shiver as he brushed his fingers over her back, neck, legs, skating over her skin as both she and Clint became more frantic, her tearing his shirt to the floor along with his belt, him unsnapping her bra.

By the time they had fallen into bed, blankets and legs tangling up together, they had turned into animals. Natasha kept her eyes closed as he pressed his mouth against her stomach and ran his hands along her sides. She never liked seeing people that way, when they stopped being complex beings and turned into raw desire. Especially not when she liked them, to some degree.

In the end, they laid facing each other, gasping in the other's breath. He wasn't smiling, but even in the dark she could see his little boy's eyes grinning at her, asking  _'wasn't that fun_?'

His hand, the one with the calluses, ran over her side, and she took it in her hers. Natasha examined it silently, running the pad of her thumb over the calluses.

"They're from my bow. Archery," he explained when she glanced at him, curious.

"People still do that? For leisure, I mean," she added, trying to think someone casually carting around a bow and some arrows the same way others might carry a bag.

"Some," he said, grinning. "Once you get into the swing of it, it's supposed to be meditative or something. I have yet to see proof of this."

Natasha really didn't care about archery, no matter who did it. But she still smiled and shook her head, like she was amused at his joke. She ran her thumb along his palm, then kissed his fingertips. She had no idea how she was supposed to keep doing this. He was completely disarming, frustratingly, wonderfully disarming, and being around him was like skipping along his gold paved road that only ended in more pain and frustration.

Natasha let go of his hand, and closed her eyes. Clint moved closer, carefully sliding his arms around her chest. He pressed his face into her hair, and gave a sigh that pooled across her neck. It was like he was purposefully  _trying_  to annoy her, trying to deny what little emotional preservation she had left, all with a kiss and a grin and a gentle, cheeky set of manners.

She needed to stop this. He was a greedy, despicable man.

 _At least, despicable by rule of thumb,_  Natasha thought, forcing herself to remain relaxed as Clint wandered off into sleep.

**he leaves her just like before. a yellow sticky note waits for her when she gets up.**

Natasha was hardly surprised when she woke up and found Clint still flush against her. She was laying on her back, arm wedged between their bodies. His face was pressed into the spot between her neck and shoulder, breaths long and slow, nearly in tandem with hers.

It was still mostly dark, only thin strands of morning light creeping past the curtains. Clint's arm was draped across her stomach, and she wanted to pick it up and start examining it, to see what other imperfections it had aside from the calluses, but she restrained herself. When he shifted, she snapped her eyes shut, praying that he wasn't awake yet. She bit her cheek as his hand moved up to wind itself in her hair, the touch slow and luxurious.

Clint wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger. Natasha kept her breathing even and slow, waiting, waiting for that moment when he got up. Eventually it came, and then he pulled away from her. Clint sat up and got out of bed, gritting out a curse as the cold air hit his skin. The entire time, Clint made sure to keep Natasha completely covered by the blanket.

Again she listened as he got dressed, silent as he sorted out his clothes and tied his shoes. There was a crisp shuffling of paper (not her money, else she would have dropped all pretenses and promptly made a very, very big fuss). And then the door clicked shut.

Natasha cracked open an eye, making sure that Clint had left, and more importantly, that she had been right in thinking that her cash was untouched. Sure enough, it was still tucked away in the far corner of the table, just as big as it had been the night before. And right beside, a placidly yellow sticky note.

She climbed out of the bed and got dressed, thinking about where she might get her breakfast. She usually settled for something like a muffin and maybe an apple or drink, but her stomach longed for something warm, even if it was some greasy breakfast sandwich picked up from the nearest fast food place.

Natasha pulled on her boots and coat, grabbed the cash, then paused. She looked at Clint's suit jacket, wondering where on earth it was he went whenever he ducked out of the room, or why he even left in the first place.

**she takes it home, put it in a drawer with the other one.**

She sighed, shaking her head and telling herself that it didn't matter, it didn't matter, there were bigger, more important things for her to worry about. Like breakfast.

Natasha walked to the door, not allowing so much as a hitch in her step as she pulled the sticky note off the table and stowed it into her pocket. She left the room quickly, buttoning up her coat and trying to remember if she had to go straight or turn left to find her breakfast, and trying to forget what that new piece of paper meant.

When she got home, Natasha immediately went to her vanity. She opened the drawer, revealing the worn blue piece of paper that had made her life such hell over the last few weeks. She dropped the new sticky note in, then unlocked a lower draw to reveal the puzzle box she kept all of her money in.

Natasha carefully unlocked puzzle box, fingers tracing the familiar patterns and making the top click open. It was a gorgeous thing, a gift from her grandfather. It was also one of the last remnants of her life before the boarding house. She dropped the wad of bills in then quickly closed it, wishing that the Landlord would drop by the boarding house soon. She felt nervous having so much cash in her possession, not only because other girls might be tempted to try and steal it, but also because she might get careless one day and just blow it all on nothing. Natasha had thought about it a couple of times, when she got bold and thought that  _maybe,_  she could stop, buy whatever she wanted and stop having to pay the ridiculous fees that went along with being one of the Landlord's girls and living in the forsaken building in the first place, but she had learned since then.

It was impossible to stop, stop running, stop selling, stop getting wrapped up in powerful men's words and lies. The world would never stop just because she did, and the ground would tear itself right out from under her feet and leave Natasha to fall and break, without so much as a care or a backward glance.

She hugged the puzzle box to her chest, then put it away, locking the drawer back. She stood up, the paused over the still open top drawer. Those two disgustingly bright squares were staring at her, judging her, asking her if she  _really_ thought she was still alright.

Natasha roughly slammed the drawer shut, then stomped to her closet to hang up her coat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a terrible way, I kind of like Natasha's mindset/attitude at this point, because it's just so interesting. She's so absolutely jaded and unhappy and has no bright, shiny hopes of where this all ends for her, but at the same time, she's in serious denial. Not just with Clint, but it's like she's denying how bad things are. She doesn't call the Landlord her pimp, or her and the rest of the people he hires prostitutes, or her home a brothel, but instead finds euphemisms or a way of dancing around the topic because it doesn't bite as much. Absolutely fascinating aspect of her.


	3. kiss his heart on the mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the Landlord. He's a despicable, despicable character, but it's very rare that I get to delve into such a dark, gritty character. He poses a lot of possibilities with how unpredictable he is.

 

"I've Got to See You Again"

Lines on your face don't bother me  
Down in my chair when you dance over me  
I can't help myself  
I've got to see you again

Late in the night when I'm all alone  
And I look at the clock and I know you're  
not home  
I can't help myself  
I've got to see you again

Norah Jones

* * *

**nearly a month passes.**

The nights go by for Natasha, skittering past in an ugly haze. She was tired so often these days, tired and  _cold_. And not just from forsaking most of her nights to saunter along street corners, cooing at anyone that might give her a buck, and constantly keeping an eye out for the police. It wasn't anything physical that dragged at Natasha's bones, but merely the nonsense that had somehow packed its way into her head. Every time someone opened the door for her, or told her that she really didn't need to bother with a seat belt because  _we'll be there soon,_  or the Landlord casually told her that someone had booked her for three consecutive nights, she felt another small piece of herself break off and get lost somewhere.

She kept wondering if she would find them somewhere, tucked against the wall beneath her bed, or maybe hiding in the back corner of one of her vanity drawers, but Natasha knew she would never search. It hurt enough to lose them the first time, she didn't want to throw herself open eyed into a second.

Yet through all this, Natasha found herself thinking about Clint. Again, and again, and again, he would pop into her head, and it wasn't just disgruntled curiosity anymore. Clint, damnable Clint with his stupid sticky notes and his sad blue eyes, he has turned into a fact, a landmark. There should be nothing inside her for him, and yet he somehow managed to find purchase.

It absolutely infuriated her.

Natasha didn't know what exactly he was doing there inside of her head, or what he meant, but she knew that it could never be anything good for her. Not getting caught up was not an object to her anymore, as she had clearly and fully handed herself over to him.

To what extent though, was the main concern.

As much as Natasha wanted to deny it, Clint was a fire to her. He was warm and wonderful and he casts out bits of dark from her soul, but oh how he  _hurt_  when she tried to touch him.

Because she was always trying to touch him, dipping her finger tips into his flames every time her mind wandered over to him, longing for his respect and decency. Then the truth of the matter always came back to burn her, as she remembered that he does not care about her, does not respect her as she would like to think. The light he cast over her that allowed her to think that she might be a little bit better is fake, a joke. The most Clint could possibly respect about her or even see in her was the beautiful simplicity of the system she had ground herself under.

Thinking about it just made her even more cold and tired.

**then he calls and resets the clock.**

Natasha walked through the streets, head down as she waited, waited, waited for her courage to come back.

Clint had called for her, right out of the blue, like last time. Just when she had settled in the assurance that he would  _not_  ever ask to see her again, he had smashed it all apart. She could have dealt with that, though. That was fine, she really didn't care. Natasha wanted to lose the pain of having  _nothing_ , even if it was just for a while, even if it was just by drowning it in another sort of pain. What had her pacing the streets instead of sitting quietly in her room and waiting until Clint wanted her, however, was the Landlord.

Just hearing her name,  _Natasha,_  slip from his lips sent a shudder down her shoulder blades. It was smooth, easy, a pack of daggers wrapped up in the bow that was his friendly Texan accent.

She had turned in the hallway when he had spoken, pulling her strings tight and keeping anything from reaching her face. A bag of laundry in her arms as she was dragging herself back from the Laundromat, but Natasha looked at him like she was the most refined creature in the world, like he had not business in speaking to her.

_No fear._

He had been quite civil all through the interaction. There was no hair grabbing, no knocking her bag to the floor, not so much as a hissed couple of words in her face. Simply him saying that he was pleased with her, that she had been doing good lately.

"You were out nearly every night last week, managed to get Mr. Barton as a regular—"

"A regular?" she interrupted, caught up in herself for a moment. She sank her teeth into her tongue when she saw the Landlord shift ever so slightly, manner turning from a warm blanket to steel. She kept the worry from leaping into her eyes, though, kept herself from shifting back and shrinking, becoming a smaller target. Natasha was a statue, big and frozen and unable to be hurt by looks and words. She waited a moment, worried about what his next move was, but while the Landlord's expression turned colder at her trespass, it wasn't flinty.

The moment seemed like a lifetime, her staring at his grey-green eyes and trying not to pay attention to how noticeably empty they were, no soul for them to reveal. But then he nodded, melting into something sunny and complimentary.

"Yes, a regular. Didn't Alexandria tell you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alexandria was Natasha's main rival for position in the boarding house, reveling in the petty, self-serving atmosphere. Where Natasha had tenure and a charisma that was all sultry elegance (or as much elegance a street corner hooker could have), Alexandria had a fervor and never ending willingness to fling herself at customer's feet. Underneath her determination and hard work, Alexandria had nails like a cat's; liable to shoot out at anyone that displeased her without a moment's notice.

The Landlord's smile became real as he read the truth of the matter on Natasha's face—of course Alexandria hadn't told Natasha that there was another regular calling for her. That would only increase Natasha's standing with the Landlord, exactly the opposite of what Alexandria was fighting every day for.

There was very little in the world other than money and indulging in vice that brought such satisfied amusement to the Landlord's face, and it made her sick.

"Yes, well, our Mr. Barton has called for you again. Make sure you don't go on and  _disappoint_ him, that won't be getting us anywhere, now will it? Your numbers are already teetering as it is, can't afford much more happening can you?" He chuckled and touched her arm, a far too familiar farewell for her liking.

The threat still made Natasha's hands clench. Not in anger, not in resentment or determination or disgust. It was only fear that made her hands move, only fear that sent her walking all over hell knew where in heels that could probably be used as chopsticks. She couldn't maintain the removed, cold façade when the Landlord did that to her, not when he touched her arm like a friend and threatened her like an enemy.

Not in a place like the boarding house, anyways. The other girls were all sharks and wolves, circling and waiting for a drop of blood or waft of fear to lunge.

Natasha kept her head down, walking fast in a bad neighborhood with the banner of a prostitute streaming behind her. Voices barked out at her from alleys, whistles echoed off the walls, fingers beckoned her closer, all asking if she would cut them a break, just this once. Natasha cast them looks entirely made of ice and kept moving, hands clenched in the pockets of a coat that was a little too heavy for the weather.

It was all she had though, the only shield between her and everything from the wind and the vagrants that watched her disappear in the gloom to the doubts and unceasing cold that radiated out of her. Natasha had bought it for herself with her street corner money, not long after her grandparents had died, but before she had gone to live in the boarding house. It was the last thing she had before she had marched herself into this terrible era of darkness.

A radio crackled down to her from an apartment above, a soft voiced woman saying that it was  _'ten twenty-seven, folks_ ', telling Natasha that she had better get going if she was going to find Clint's motel before the hour was up.

She walked a little faster towards where his motel was, wanting to be able to not think as she handed herself over to the simple task of performing and getting cash.

**this is a habit he is making. she can feel it.**

Clint let her in with a smile and a nod. He was dressed nice as always, slacks creased just so, shirt looking like it had just rolled out of one of the expensive men's apparel stores over in Manhattan. He wasn't wearing a tie, though, the loose collar exposing the edges of his collar bone.

"Good to see you," he told her as he closed the door. Natasha gave him a warm smile that she didn't mean, and shrugged out of her coat. It gave a dull sigh as it hit the wood, something she could sympathize with. Clint fished out his wallet, handing over the money. He was entirely casual as he spoke, as if this was the way everyone behaved.

"I would have called sooner, but I just haven't had the time."

Natasha tucked away the money, wondering why he even bothered to explain it to her. Her opinion didn't matter, not in the slightest.

"I can see that," she said, settling in close to him. "There's all sorts of stress sitting on your shoulders. I think you really ought to let me work that out."

"Work it out," he murmured, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her a little bit closer. He was looking through his lashes at her, eyes following her arms as she settled them around his shoulders.

"That sounds like an appealing option," he admitted, and Natasha smiled. Immediately he was tasting it, drinking up her laughter in great greedy gulps that drew all of the oxygen out of her.

Clint was some sort of mix between their last two encounters, not the fevered creature that had first bought her, nor the gentle, steady one from the time before. There was some sort of intensity coursing through his fingers that pressed itself through her clothes and her skin as he pushed her up against the wall by the door, raising her arms above her head.

As Clint kissed her, Natasha closed her eyes. Shudders skittered across her spine as he brushed his lips over her neck, which only seemed to excite him more.

She had been right, she thought vaguely, hands clenched in the back of his shirt. Worries about the Landlord had been lost in the flurry of his hands and lips covering as much of her as possible.

Clint shifted her to the table, but she pushed back, getting her feet under her and forcing him back towards the bed. His laughter trickled past her teeth and his tongue and ran on down into her throat, where it settled, dark and forbidden and sweet.

The two of them tumbled onto the bed, Natasha straddling him and unbuttoning his shirt further. Just one glance at his face told her that yes, this was a habit now carved into his bones.

She pressed her lips to his sternum, partly because she had to and partly because she was so incredibly relieved.

**the smile he gives her later is made of angel feathers. she thinks it ironic, as his words echo with vice.**

Natasha pulled in a breath, waiting for sleep. Clint's breathing was steadier than hers, and his eyes were closed. His heartbeat wound through his veins and into her bones, comforting even though it was out of rhythm with hers.

"I wish I could stay here for forever," he mumbled, making her chuckle.

"You could, if you want. I certainly won't kick you out."

Clint cracked a smile, then shifted so his legs were a little less entangled with hers.

"Oh, it's not you that I'm worried about. It's more work, which has had me up in the ass crack of the morning all week. First the flight to Germany, then attending  _waaaaay_  too many conferences, pleasing this person, making nice to that guy, flying back for most of the day...it's a nightmare."

"Germany?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it. He gave a tired ' _mm-hm'_ , then sighed and cracked open one of his lovely, if exhausted, blue eyes to look at her.

"Apparently only the new, promising young minds of engineering are allowed to travel nine hour flights to Germany," he sighed. "The older minds get to stay in boring old America to wake up in the ass crack of the morning."

"Lucky them" she mused, thinking that Clint must have done a  _lot_  of traveling, if going to Germany for a few conferences was unimpressive. It also reminded Natasha of her childhood dream to go traveling across the world, excited by stories from her parents. So far, the only real traveling she had done was the trip from Russia to New York, and then migrating her way into worse and worse neighborhoods.

"At least you're home now," she murmured, which only made him sigh again.

"Yep, except my fiancée wants to spend all day with me to hear about Germany," Clint groaned, face half hidden in his pillow. Natasha gave a chuckle as if to point out how well he had it if the worst he had to worry about was his fiancée wanting to spend some time with him after a week in Germany.

"She do that often?"

"Every time I have a business trip. Even if I'm just going out of state, she demands I spend at least all of lunch talking about the things I've seen. It's exhausting, but I don't mind. It's sweet."

_It shows she cares,_  Natasha thought, wondering who this faceless, sweet woman was before drifting into apathy.

"S'why I wish I could just stay here," he said, voice stumbling about as he spoke. Clint broke into a broad smile, one that was so completely full of amusement that Natasha found it a bit stunning, nearly impossible to look at it was so bright. He was so tired that his filters had stopped working, letting all of that simple pleasure flood to the surface.

"I don't have to do anything I don't wanna...with you. No limits pushed…nothing unexpected happening…it's nice. I like it," he mumbled into the pillows, practically asleep, even while speaking.

"It's nice…you're nice."

Natasha sighed as he finally drifted asleep, wondering when she would follow.

How many times, she wondered, had some man fallen asleep beside her, thinking of another life, another woman? She hadn't bothered to ever count such a depressing thing, but she personally thought that it was not enough. Terrible as it was, Natasha wished that she could have managed only on being a call girl and save her the shame of posing for a world she wasn't sure she even liked. Being able to get at least a few hours of sleep, a few more bucks an hour, and not having to deal with the men that hardly even looked back as she stumbled out of their car, it was nice. It made it a bit easier to keep her pride form turning to shambles in her hands, which was becoming a more and more common occurrence these days.

**when she wakes, he isn't there.**

Natasha rolled over, tumbling into consciousness when the shocking cold of the other side of the bed pressed into her skin. She jerked up onto one elbow, heart playing racket ball against her ribs as she dragged in a breath. Disoriented, she looked around the half lit motel room, trying to figure out where she was. She raked through her memories, slowly realizing what was out of place.

Clint wasn't there.

She pulled herself to her feet, making sure that her money was still there, then heaved out a sigh when she found it all in the same place. Natasha flopped back against the bed, trying to make her heart slow.

She wanted to crawl back under the covers, but it was time for her to go. As much as she wanted to curl up under the protection of the warm blankets and forget what had brought her there, Natasha knew she had to leave. Clint had left, probably had checked out of the room already, and the last thing she wanted was to be chased out by the cleaning lady.

If she had been with anyone else, Natasha probably would have worried over the late hour, which was marked by both the clock and the full morning sunshine streaming through the room. With Clint, however, she felt entirely at ease. Probably because of his habit of making sure he never woke her up when he left (sneaking away out of shame, and not quietly leaving out of politeness, she told herself).

As Natasha got dressed, though, she couldn't help but feel… _disappointed_  that she had missed Clint leave. She prided herself on getting up before her clients most times, and there was the fact that she had begun to wonder about what he did every time he woke up. She was curious about why he was so determined to not touch her in the morning, and because she was never going to ask, she might as well observe as much as she could to draw an accurate conclusion.

**she gets ready to leave, but helps herself to a bit of coffee.**

Natasha paused before leaving, and wondered ' _why not?'_  before indulging herself. She turned to the counter, which sported the standard microwave and sink, but also a mug and a small container of instant coffee that Clint had probably carried with him. She quickly went about making herself a cup, quietly wishing there was orange juice. It was impressive enough that Clint had carried instant coffee with him when coming back from Germany, but there was no way he was going to go out and buy a bunch of hassle in the form of a carton of juice.

She sat down at the small table sipping from her coffee, which was a little watery from her having to eyeball the amount she poured into the water, but she didn't mind. She looked at her coat, which was hanging off the side of the table, clinging to the top to avoid falling to the questionable floor below. Natasha brushed the heels of her shoes along the worn carpet, vaguely wondering how many people like her this room had seen, and then how many of that number had chosen to linger just as she was doing.

The cup was comforting in her hands, the warmth wriggling its way up through her fingers and into her chest. It warmed her up much more than the cash staring at her on the table ever could. Probably because the coffee (for her, at least) was free, while she had worked hard for every cent sitting beside her.

Sighing, she picked up the money and placed it in her coat pocket, not wanting to feel the reproach flowing off of it. Natasha pulled on her coat, telling herself that she would leave soon, but didn't get up. She picked up her coffee mug, took another sip.

**the door opens, making her jump.**

The sound of the door opening and disrupting the perfect quiet around Natasha made her jump, nearly spilling her coffee. She stared at Clint, who had just walked through it. He looked at her in equal surprise, as if not having expected her to have been there.

"You're awake," he said, and she nodded, a stream of curses bursting through her head in Russian. She began berating herself for sticking around, for having taken up more of his time than he had paid for. That was something amateurs did, not girls that had been doing this for the better part of  _ten damn years_.

"I thought you would still be asleep now," he said, slowly closing the door. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and was slipping his phone into his pocket. She wondered whom he had been calling, then told herself to not care.

"Uhm, no, I just woke up, actually," she said, then cleared her throat to push the accent out of her voice. It always bled through in the mornings when she first woke up and wasn't as on guard. Clint nodded, and she wondered why on earth he had come back. Did he normally do this? Or had he be gone long enough for him to think she would be gone? She glanced at the clock, nervous at the time she had taken back from him.

**he sits down and talks with her a little, but mostly watches her. she feels uncomfortable even though it's totally innocent.**

"Mm," he said noncommittally, nodding and taking a step towards her. Natasha pressed her thumb against the mug, turning the nail white from the pressure. She glanced down at her hand, thankful that it was hidden by the cup so that Clint couldn't see how anxious she suddenly felt. Natasha thought she had a general grasp of Clint's character, but she wasn't sure what he was going to do next, whether he was subject to the especially nasty things always came out at unexpected moments.

"Mind if I…?" Clint asked, nodding towards the chair beside her. She blinked in surprise, then nodded, gesturing absently at the space beside her.

He drew the chair back and settled in it, giving her a passing smile.

"If I'd known that you wanted some, I would have packed better coffee," he said, nodding at the mug in her hands. She gave a fleeting smile, suddenly aware of how very much he owned the mug.

"It's alright," she said, more out of politeness than actual conviction. She had the sneaking suspicion that the coffee wouldn't taste much better even if it were at full strength, but it was something in her stomach and she was never one to look at the teeth of the horse she'd been given.

Clint laughed and shook his head, resting an elbow on the table.

"Come on, I only take that stuff with me so I can get my caffeine fix to get me on my feet before I go find coffee that doesn't taste like disgusting river water."

"Not all rivers are dirty," she said, shrugging, which made him chuckle again.

"I don't know what kind of rivers you've been privileged to see, but most people 'round here think of just the Hudson."

"That's frightfully narrow minded, don't you think?" Natasha asked, breaking into a smile. She was trying to do anything to move his gaze off of her, but wasn't having much luck. For having been so exhausted the night before that he could barely focus his eyes, they were shockingly sharp right now. It felt like Clint was yet again looking at her like he could see through to her soul, and it made her uncomfortable. The more she thought about it, the less of her she wanted himt o see.

The strangest thing, though, was that Clint gaze wasn't even the hungry, lecherous thing that she was used to, the kind that bar flies sent her when it was late and they were both a little drunk and she was truly desperate for some cash. Instead Clint was just watching her, nothing but idle interest and a little bit too much perception filling his eyes.

"I guess," he said, shrugging. He turned his eyes to the mug in her hands, but it wasn't in an accusatory or passive-aggressive display of ownership, just an act of observation. She pulled her hands away from it, even though she immediately missed the shreds of warmth in the porcelain.

"You much of a coffee person?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"It's something," she said, and he shook his head, gave a soft sigh that was almost another laugh.

**she retreats into the bathroom, just for some space, just for some air.**

There was another awkward pause and Natasha shifted again, then got to her feet.

"If you'll excuse me," she murmured, quickly retreating to the bathroom before Clint had even finished something like ' _sure'_.

She closed the door behind her and nearly sank to the floor, wondering  _how the hell_  she had gotten herself into this situation. Of course, logic said that she should have just gotten up and left, but instead she had walked into the bathroom, which she would have to then leave, simply to return to the room. Natasha sighed and sat on the lid of the toilet, wishing that he hadn't even called for her the night before. She was  _not_  being paid to go through this sort of social embarrassment, she was to have sex with him and then  _get out._

And what was Clint even doing, letting her stay and even sitting down with her?! He should have kicked her out, told her that it was time for her to go. That's what everyone else did. They kept it simple, distant, and efficient.

Natasha closed her eyes and took a moment to breathe without Clint's clear blue eyes on her, analyzing her very being. She tilted her head back, listening to him move in the main room. She was curious, no doubt, but she was also relishing being alone. Natasha had been far too long without real social interaction, and now was definitely not the time to start it back up with one of her _clients._

She waited, listening to the water in the pipes, the slight creak of the lid as she breathed, the sound of the people all around her, separated by less than a foot of plaster, wood, and sheet rock.

**when she comes out, he has vanished.**

Natasha finally worked up her nerve to go back out, but when she opens the door of the bathroom, it is to find that the room is empty.

She stared in confusion, part of her wondering where on earth Clint was, but a much bigger part was on its knees, completely thankful that he had the grace to let her leave in solitude. The embarrassment of having walked in on her, lingering and having a cup of coffee when she really should have been back on the streets was probably enough to make him short her pay the next time he bought her.

_**If**  he buys me again,_ she thought glumly, unable to imagine the mar this must have put on her record for him.

Natasha paused her pessimism a moment to realize that the room had changed. It was slight, but the difference caught her eye.

A bright pink sticky note sat on the table, curled upwards from having been roughly pulled from the main pad. Natasha walked closer, more out of impulse than anything. She knew there wouldn't be anything on it, just like the other two, but she still had to look, had to make sure that it was real.

Natasha sighed slightly, then blinked. Her cup (or rather, the cup she had borrowed from Clint) had disappeared as well. She wondered if he had taken it, but then reminded herself that he had no purpose in trucking around a coffee cup with him when he could just leave it in the room with the rest of his things.

Briefly Natasha wondered if he had thrown it away, but then rolled her eyes at her wild conclusions. She checked the small sink, utterly unsurprised to find it sitting primly in the basin, completely washed.

She shook herself then turned around, and walked quickly to the door. Natasha picked up the pink sticky note in one swift movement, not even hitching her step on her way past.

**she can't help but smile as leaves, because now she knows.**

The air was crisp on her skin, and her coat was practically hanging off her shoulders, but Natasha didn't slow down, didn't adjust her clothes. As she walked, Natasha looked at the sticky note, holding it up before her eyes for the entire world to see. A tiny quirk came to her lips, and she stowed it in her pocket.

She got it now. After all of that wondering, she  _finally_  understood was those stupid blank sticky notes meant.

They were a good bye.

Each time he left them, he was saying goodbye to her. That was probably why he had come back in that morning, to place a sticky note in the room or to get something before he vacated the area so she could leave with some shred of dignity.

Natasha felt her stomach flutter at the thought, suddenly filled with appreciation for Clint. He was undoubtedly still a scoundrel that preferred spending his first even back from Germany with a prostitute rather than his fiancée, but Clint  _did_  have some sense of decency. At least enough to let her walk away with her wounded pride and her tail between her legs without anyone to watch her.

And…stupid as it was, there was some triumph there, too. To some extent, she had been right in thinking that Clint was a little bit more than her standard fare.

Walking back to the boarding house that day, with her head held high from the victory of finally defeating a mystery that had haunted her for weeks, Natasha also knew that was it. That was the day that Clint wasn't just a curiosity or a nuisance or a mental affliction to her.

That was when she finally admitted he was a little bit more than interesting.


	4. got a broken voice

"Lonely Hands"

I bit my tongue in the arc of conversation  
I met you once and I've fallen for your notion...  
Oh, you make me wanna feel  
Things I've never felt before

You took me here and gave me something to believe in  
I don't know why, I don't know why.

Julia Stone

* * *

**the landlord isn't happy when her numbers are down.**

Despite her best efforts, Natasha couldn't bring herself to throw herself at the feet of anyone who dared pass her corner at night. She wanted to, she really did, if only because it meant a little bit more money, but it never came into fruition. In the end, Natasha always found herself slogging back home after a few customers, head down and cash in her pocket.

She hated nights like those the most, because they were filled with what she liked to call 'drive by' customers. She never serviced them for long. The time it took for them to get her in the car, pause somewhere for her to pull their pants off and do her job, then drop her off at the corner was always under half an hour. And they were never in short supply. Natasha could always rely on the drive bys to fill her night, and series of them could even out pay an all night customer, but they wore at her more than anyone else. She wasn't even a living being to those men, she was just a  _thing_  they paid to use when they felt like it, same as a vending machine or tourist binoculars.

But she had to keep earning  _something_ , that was the entire reason she had fallen into the lifestyle. Plus the Landlord had been on a roll over the last few days, walking through the halls and messing some of the girls up. He did this every so often, utterly indiscriminate in his victims, as he was ' _just keeping y'all grateful for what you have'._

That was Natasha's rub; she hated sauntering down the street, but also dreaded going back to the boarding house. Either she stuffed away her pride, or strolled into the lair of the devil.

The boarding house was quiet as Natasha walked in, the building caught in one of those strange periods where it was too early for people to be coming back, but also too late for them to be going out. She didn't let her façade falter, however, half expecting the Landlord to appear out of the shadows and give her a bit more hell.

As she climbed up the stair case, Natasha couldn't help but pause. The Landlord had kicked a girl out on that very spot the day before.

Her name had been Purnima, and she had spoken with a soft, lovely Indian accent. She was one of the relatively few sweet girls in the boarding house, and her goodness had most likely been the reason why she had lasted so long. Then it turned out she was about two months pregnant.

The Landlord had told her to get rid of it, but she refused. They had carried their screaming match through three levels, shaking everyone's bones as they passed. Natasha had stopped watching when the Landlord used his fists to supplement his argument, nearly knocking Purnima down the stairs.

Natasha swallowed and dragged herself up the stairs, not caring about stepping on squeaky boards and waking up some of the other girls. Pausing by her room, Natasha exchanged her coat, shoes, and tiny bag for her night clothes, toiletries, and towel. She walked to the bathroom and shut the door, letting the proud angle disappear from her shoulders. While she stripped down, Natasha ran the water as hot as it would go, filling the room with steam.

A throttled gasp wrenched itself from her throat as she eased her way past the water, but Natasha grit her teeth and got in the shower. She danced around the edge, sucking in the steam and darting her hand through the water to smack the handle back towards the blue. When the water wasn't nearly searing her skin away from her body, Natasha stuck her face under the water.

She ducked her head so that the water splashed against her crown, dripping down her face. The steam was thick in the air, and it seemed to coat her mouth and lungs, making it difficult to breathe (she swore to herself it wasn't because of the memory of Purnima standing up to a giant while everyone else watched behind closed doors).

A shaky sob tore itself from her lungs, and she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself against the wall.

_No, Natasha, don't do this, don't do this, you don't have to. Not in **his**  place, not with his little whores listening at every wall,  **don't do it.**_

But she couldn't help herself. Another desperate gasp slipped past her lips, wracking her whole body. Natasha didn't know if she was crying because of the water, but she knew that there was no air in her breaths and her chest felt like it might cave in and her hands were shaking and she felt like she was going to vomit because she hated, hated,  _hated_ it there.

Natasha had watched the beginning of the fight with the rest of the girls, more out of morbid curiosity than sociopathic delight. She had peered around her cracked door like all the other girls, pretending that the screams weren't jackhammers on their eardrums, pretending that she wasn't supremely bothered by the fact that the Landlord had just given Purnima a black eye and nearly knocked her down the last half of the stair case. But then she realized somewhere along the line that watching the manatee showing of the Landlord's depravity made her feel somewhat sick, and things were a little bit less interesting to watch.

Natasha felt sick every time something like this happened, every time the Landlord openly knocked around a girl, or wrecked her room, or kicked her out, because it reminded her that the girls of the boarding house were just a vicious five year old's set of toys.

Natasha wiped the water from her eyes and pulled her head from under the spray. She forced herself to breathe  _in out in_   _out_ , because she had forgotten and really just wanted to give in to her terror and  _let herself be scared._

The image of the Landlord, savagery laced up in slacks and shirt sleeves, was burned into her head. It revived every ugly picture of him that she had, and the horror was seeping in, and in, and _in,_ making her feel completely defenseless. Natasha was an expert at protecting herself from the world, but she knew that there was no harsh look or cold demeanor in her arsenal that could scare away a monster like that.

She sat down in the shower, arms wrapped around her legs as the water splattered all around her.

 _That could have been me,_  she thought, breaths sending droplets scattering like miniature fireworks.  _That could have been me, I could have been gone._

**the landlord leaves a note into her door. she throws that one away.**

When Natasha went back to her room, she noticed that a note had been held to the door via knife. It wasn't much, just some cheap pocket knife that probably wasn't even sharp enough to cut skin, but sure scared the hell out of her.

She tore the paper from the knife, stomach tying itself in knots as she skimmed over the words in black pen.

_Get your numbers up, or we'll have some problems._

The note by itself rattled her enough, but what  _really_  made Natasha sick was the fact that the note hadn't been there when she'd dropped off her things earlier. The Landlord had come by with a knife and a desire to do some damage, and she had missed him by the skin of her teeth.

The thought of what might have happened to her had he caught up to her made her knees weak. She supposed that the truly lucky thing was that the he hadn't decided to go find her in the bathroom.

She took a shuddery breath and glanced around. She couldn't afford to be caught out there by the other girls, especially not when she was on the verge of cracking apart.

Reaching up to the knife still stuck in her door, she yanked it down. The knife felt clumsy and heavy in her hand, like it had never touched such a bizarre thing like a pocket knife before. The idea of keeping it for later use flashed into her head, but she quickly dismissed it. She didn't need any more trouble, and keeping a weapon was most certainly asking for it.

She examined the door, and other than a small scrap of paper jammed into the short gash the knife had made, it looked normal. Natasha walked into her room and shut the door firmly behind her. A weak gasp escaped her before she slumped against the back of the door, utterly drained.

For some perverse reason, Natasha's brain leaped to the sticky notes tucked away in her vanity. The tiny collection of goodbyes she had from him was nothing like the harsh thing she had in her hand now. She had no desire to keep it for later, to pull it out and run her fingers over the paper and indulge in little possibilities. All Natasha wanted to do was  _throw it away,_  and never think about it again.

Natasha tried to ignore the way her hands shook as she tossed both the note and the knife into the trash can. But that didn't keep her from gritting her teeth and pressing her tears into her pillow when the lights were off and door closed and no one was around to see just how much she  _hated_  herself for staying with this.

**the other girls think that she's in bed with the landlord. she lets them.**

The other girls could sense the extra attention Natasha was receiving with the Landlord. She wasn't sure of the specifics of what they thought was happening, but she knew that any extra attention received in the boarding house was  _not_  a good thing.

Already there was increased hostility towards her. Alexandria had wasted no time in laying down the idea that the Landlord's preferential treatment of Natasha was threatening everyone else's standing. A few seeds planted here or there, and then over night it had bloomed into Natasha sleeping with him. Not that the Landlord never made personal use of his girls, but to hear Alexandria say it, Natasha wasn't far from being pulled up to the Landlord's rank in their twisted form of feudalism.

Natasha could deal with the barbs tossed at her back, or the way no one would look her in the eye as she passed. Even when girls would go out of their way to inconvenience her with showers that used up all the hot water, stealing her shoes, or lending her ill sized clothing, Natasha didn't mind. The other girls were sharks circling the water, and it was far better that they tear her apart over foundless accusations, rather than the hard truth of her not doing her job.

Natasha compensated by spending more time out in the city. She took walks, she lounged in parks, she ate in quaint food places in Manhattan. Anything to keep her away.

Even taking customers was a form of refuge. Natasha couldn't help but feel that it was a sick form of defeat, allowing men to buy her, because to escape the Landlord and his girls, she was running to the men they had made her hate. No matter what, she was still in the care of miserable company.

**he's stuck in her head now. despite everything, she's caught up in him.**

It was a relief when Clint called for Natasha. When she saw him open the door, it was like she was finally letting loose the breath she'd held since last seeing him. The worry of the streets and the boarding house shrugged off of her, like a coat only he could slide from her shoulders.

That long exhale, though, only stoked the fire that he had become inside of her. Natasha wanted to kick herself, but as the summer dragged on, she found butterflies turning her stomach every time she saw him. She masked it well, turning the uncontrollable smile on her lips into a coy, provocative thing that she knew men couldn't refuse. The innate desire to touch his arm was passed off as a flirtation before they got to business. Nothing personal, nothing real, it was all just a part of the system set up long before they had rolled around.

Of course, Natasha knew that her desperate resolution not to be caught up in him had been shot to hell and back, but she also knew there was no recovering from it. So instead she tried to hide the fact that she was running to heartache with her eyes wide open, tried to pretend that she felt  _nothing_  when she was around Clint, because there never  _could_  be anything. Imagining anything else was supremely stupid, because she knew that people's lives didn't turn out half so nice.

It kind of worked, because for a few seconds, she could believe it. Kind of.

Clint, because he was Clint and seemed to have some innate penchant for making her life more difficult while making it so much better at the same time, chose small talk over the gentlemanly matter of knocking her off her feet and yanking off her clothes. He still stuck to his pleasantries, starting up conversation and asking about her day, though Natasha had told him time and again and  _there was no need._  They both knew this wasn't some popularity contest he had to win in order to get laid.

**she starts talking before she earns her stay.**

The more times he insisted on speaking to her first, though, the harder it was for Natasha to hide the stupid flutters he evoked. It made her edgy, realizing that she was about half a sentence away from spilling her guts onto the floor and tossing herself into a lifetime of shame, because if she was anything, she was a professional, dammit, and kept things detached. Compartmentalization was synonymous for survival in her world, and she had better get things straight if she wanted the Landlord to  _ever_  let her be one of his call girls again.

Eventually, Clint wore down her walls, just a little bit. When he made conversation, she found herself talking back, or rather, gave real answers to his questions, rather than coy and suggestive evasions.

It wasn't much, just a little thing here or there, but she supposed it was enough. When he asked her about the heat streak they had been experiencing, she would mention how she much preferred the cold. When he asked her if she wanted take her shoes off right away if they were hurting her (which she really did and they really were), she shrugged and said that she had borrowed them from a friend, rather than giving him a look that said prostitutes weren't  _allowed_  to make themselves comfortable when they were on the job.

She knew that they weren't saying anything  _important_ , not in the grand scheme of things, but everything that she let slip seemed like a life changing revelation to her. Natasha had lived on the policy of 'don't show, and don't you  _dare_ tell' for years, because opening up for anyone was begging for trouble, but she couldn't help it with Clint.

For some reason, he seemed to understand that when she mentioned a preference for orange juice, that this was something she hadn't told anyone in over six years. He knew that when she said she liked longer hairstyles but hated the care they required, she was thinking about when her early street walking days and someone had attacked her, dragging her into an alley by her hair. Clint knew there were things she wasn't telling, knew that she had secrets locked away behind labyrinths and prisons, yet  _didn't press her_ like every other damn person in her life.

That was probably the thing she liked most about him. He knew there was something she would not let him have, and yet didn't try to tear it out of her. Each little inconsequential detail she gave him slowly stacked up to make a window to her soul, and that was something he took with both hands, gently, like it might break.

But that didn't keep him from wanting to know more. Finally, after a handful of months, dozens of subtle questions, a pile of sticky notes, and far too many careless kisses, he gave that little push. They were both a little drunk and exhausted and tangled up beneath the blankets when he asked the question. She knew he thought she was asleep, because his voice had changed. It wasn't so perfectly civil or light or teasing like she was used to, but sadder and darker and lower. This was Clint when he stopped playing at his own façade, when he didn't feel the need to be the mysterious gentleman that hired out whores.

"How long's it taken you to tell somebody?" he had asked, voice just a warm breath on her shoulder. "I 'preciate the effort, I really do, but…how long've you been building those walls up 'round yourself?"

Natasha continued to pretend to be asleep, because that's all she ever did, hid and pretended when things got tough. She didn't want to have to wake up and be pushed into saying something she didn't want to. She wanted to just lay there and be warm and comfortable and impervious to things she wasn't supposed to hear.

She listened to him sigh and shift, listened to her heartbeat clatter against her bones. It was hard to listen, though, as his unspoken question drummed against her ears.

_Why did you choose to tell all of this to me?_


	5. take my story, take my soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was kind of a challenge for me to not put all of the lyrics for the song at the beginning of this chapter, because this song JUST FITS EVERYTHING (or rather, i made this chapter fit the song :'D). Seriously, go listen to it, go read all of the lyrics, just go absorb this song into your blood stream because it is kind of incredibly important to me.

"Samson"

Samson came to my bed  
Told me that my hair was red  
Told me I was beautiful and came into my bed

Oh I cut his hair myself one night  
A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light  
And he told me that I'd done alright  
And kissed me 'til the mornin' light, the mornin' light  
And he kissed me 'til the mornin' light

You are my sweetest downfall,  
I loved you first.

Regina Spektor

* * *

**it's a little scary to hear the naked truth spill from her lips, she thinks.**

The next time Clint called for her, Natasha realized that she wasn't the only one that lived on pretending. Clint smiled and let her in and made nice like always, never hinting at the question he had whispered into the dark the last time he had hired her. She wasn't about to push the subject though, not when it was so easy playing the fool.

He carried on as usual, making quiet small talk as he slowly kissed her and pulled her clothes off. She played along, following him to the bed and perching high up on his lap. He smiled at her, and kissed her collar bone.

Natasha closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his hand on her hip, while the other ran through her hair.

"Natasha," he mumbled into her neck, teasing open button after button on her shirt. "Tell me something."

"In the year 1600, a volcanic eruption in Peru killed two million people in Russia."

"Very funny," he said, pulling his face back and nailing her with a look. She could see his light boy blue eyes with stunning clarity by the light coming from the gap in the curtains, and they were not impressed. She forced herself to give him a little smirk, knowing what he really wanted.

"I was going to ask…why you came into this life."

"Well, they wouldn't exactly let me talk to people in the zoo."

"That's not what I meant."

Natasha tilted her head back so that she could look down her nose at him, because,  _really,_  he was daring to ask her this, like he was some compassionate soul trying to help her climb out of this cesspool? Especially when he had one hand high on her hip, one caught on the next button of her shirt, and her legs were wrapped around his waist? The man had brass, to say the least.

Clint must have realized what she was thinking, as he gave her a winning smile (even if it was a little bit sheepish), and brushed some hair out of her face.

"It's just…we've been doing this for, what, three months? Four? And still, I barely know you."

"Getting to know people isn't exactly in my job description," she said, unable to help the knife that slipped into her voice. She gave him a cool smile, and ran an almost mocking hand along his cheek. Clint took her hand off his face, and she swore to herself that it was the calluses on his fingers that made her stomach wriggle around, because she was  _not_  going to let him wrap her around his finger with a charming smile and a few sweet words. Not when he was treating her life as a joke, or a couple of careless, easily rectifiable decisions.

He sighed and shook his head, an easy smile on his face, brushing all of her venom off with a single flick.

"Alright, maybe not the best opening question. But my point still stands. I want to know a bit about the person I've been seeing at least twice a month." Natasha cocked an eyebrow, still unwilling to comply with what he wanted. Clint rolled his eyes a moment, then leaned back against the headboard.

"Okay, fine. I will  _pay_ you  _twenty dollars_  for each pointed question you answer, alright? You don't have to answer anything you don't want to, but for everything that you  _do_ , you will get your money."

"No tricks?" she asked, unable to keep the words from tumbling from her mouth. Clint nodded, a slight smile on his lips. He didn't seem the least bit offended at her lack of trust, but then, Natasha reflected, what was there relationship built on if not lack of trust? She still felt the vague thrill of worry every time it came to handling money around him, and she could only imagine his anxiety at letting a desperate beggar periodically come into his room, strip down all his defenses, manhandle him any way she wanted, and then waltz away when she felt like it. If Natasha really wanted, she could rob him blind while he was still coming down off the high.

"No tricks," he said, breaking up her thoughts as effectively as a toddler did a dandelion. She swallowed, then nodded.

"Okay. Ask, then," Natasha said, finding a bit of anticipation winding up inside of her, instead of the worry the occasion probably warranted. Clint's smile widened, and he settled his hands on her hips.

"Alright. Thank you for being reasonable. How…how did you come here?"

Natasha paused, a little surprised that he hadn't simply repeated his earlier question. But she wasn't about to ask him to go _back_  to such an uncomfortable topic, not when she was making easy, shame-free money.

"I moved here from Russia a few years ago."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my parents. My uncle funded us, and we moved in with my grandparents."

"Do you miss Russia?"

"At times," she murmured, and realized how strange it was, to openly hand him answers about her life that she hadn't told  _anyone_. Fear flickered in her, because anything she gave away could be used against her, that much she had learned. But then, what could Clint  _really_  do with her basic history? He had probably already guessed that she was from Russia, if he had paid any attention to the accent that sometimes bled out, or even the few words in Russian that came when she was feeling especially lazy. And it was easy enough to assume that she had come there with some of her family. Besides, there was no way that he could use her family against her, not now, at least.

"America…is not like Russia in many ways. But when I look around at the things around me, it's hard to believe that I ever left."

He gave her another smile, but it wasn't the knowing, teasing thing from before. Now it was a little bit warmer, like he was… _thanking_  her.

"Look at that," he said, fingers catching on her shirt buttons again. "Sixty extra bucks made in less than five minutes. Wasn't that easy?"

"Like pie," she smiled, and let him kiss her sternum.

**one time, he even asks her to cut his hair. she says yes, because there's not much of a choice.**

Clint had a peppermint in his mouth the next time he kissed her. Natasha didn't mind, because she enjoyed mints, and she liked the cool tingle his tongue left in her mouth. He had her perched up on his knee, not long after tossing her dress to the ground. He himself wasn't wearing a shirt, and his pants and belt had been undone, though they were still slung around his hips.

He shifted in the chair, giving her a teasing smirk as he held the peppermint between his teeth, the candy sticking half way out of his mouth. It was a taunt, that much she knew, one that she brazenly took.

Natasha leaned in and kissed him, stealing the peppermint away from him. Clint's smile was delicious, far sweeter than the peppermint, which was now in her mouth.

"I hope you give that back," he said, which she responded to by crunching the candy between her teeth.

"You absolute  _savage,_ " he sighed, lacing his fingers behind her back. "Who chews hard candy?"

"Delights like me," she whispered back, trailing her thumb over his collar bone. His laughter was lost in her hair as he kissed the side of her neck, pulling her closer to him.

This was one of Clint's slow nights, Natasha could tell. He wanted to savor everything about the experience, enjoy every little touch and word she had to offer to the fullest. She honestly didn't mind, because the hours still stacked up the same, and she had long since figured out that a few more bucks could be pulled from the slow burn, rather than the rampant fire that was yanking off clothes and tearing apart sheets.

Clint had his hands in her hair, and was slowing kissing his way up from her chest to jaw when he groaned, and sat back in the chair.

"What is it?" she purred, brushing her fingers against his jaw. Clint sighed, then shook his head.

"Nothing much, I just remembered that I was supposed to get a haircut before I went home." He rubbed his hand against his face, looking like a man that was at wit's end. Natasha cast a look over his hair, and had to admit that it was getting a touch long.

"Have something big coming up?"

"No, I just forgot. Spent all that time screwing around Florida, and I can't even remember a  _haircut_. Miranda's gonna kill me."

Miranda, Natasha had surmised, was Clint's fiancée.

"I'm sure she'll forgive you," Natasha said, toying with his ear. Clint smiled and gave her a sideways look, running his finger under her bra strap.

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely. No questions about it," she murmured, trying to summon up her old mantra of not getting too horribly mixed up with him, because he was an inferno, and she didn't need burns added to her list of plights. But Natasha was  _tired_  of running around every second of the day, trying to pretend every second of the day that she wasn't really feeling what she was most certainly was feeling. She would allow herself this one night, this single hour, to be free and not play the lying game.

"What a relief. Glad to know that I can still be forgiven for  _some_  things."

"If it bothers you so much, I could do it."

She had been joking when she said it, but then Clint had  _looked_ at her, tilting his head ever so slightly. It was like he had never heard a question of such merit before, and was pondering the different philosophical levels it presented. Honestly, it made her stomach churn more than hearing a group of either very quiet or overly boisterous people following her down the street late at night (which was a lot, even after all this time).

"Would you do that, really?" he asked, and his voice lost some of that fake brightness, reminding her of the way he had sounded when he had asked about the walls she had built so damnably high.

Natasha looked at him, trying to figure out if it was a joke or not. She had been doing this for a long time now, but she hadn't ever been asked to do something so mundane as  _cut someone's hair._ She felt like there had to be a trick there, hidden somewhere, but his eyes clearly said that no, it was not.

"Yeah," she said after a moment, not even making her mind up before the words tumbled out. "Sure, why not. If you've got something for me to use."

"Luckily enough, I do," he said, gently sliding her off his knee before standing up and heading to his toiletries bag.

**she is nervous, which is stupid because she'd already performed worse in front of him a thousand times.**

Natasha stood in the bathroom, arms wrapped around herself. While Clint had gone to rummage around in his toiletries, she had dragged the chair they had been sitting on into the bathroom. Looking around the room now, she was starkly reminded of who and where she was.

She was a prostitute, standing practically naked in the yellow light of some cheap motel's rundown bathroom, waiting for her john to come in so she could…do what? Was she  _really_  going to cut his hair?

For some reason, the thought made her wring her hands. The moment she realized what she was doing, Natasha stuck her arms at her sides, hands stiff and spread out.

"Problem?" Clint asked, making her jump. In his hand, she noticed, were a pair of barber's scissors and a small comb. She shook her head at him, but could not work up a smile. Clint made up for it, though, and gave her a smile that probably tasted warmer and sweeter than butterscotch. He held the scissors and comb out to her as if asking a question, which she answered before thinking things through.

"Go ahead and sit," she said, gesturing at the chair with the scissors and comb. He paused, then slipped his pants off all the way before sitting. She began to reach for a towel to keep his shoulders clean, but he shook his head, saying something about taking a shower afterwards. Natasha nodded, then looked down at the scissors in her hand. She glanced back up, and caught sight of herself in the small mirror above the sink. Her skin looked pale and uncertain, the dingy yellow light making her look almost sickly. Her hair only added to the affect, and made it look like she was bleeding.

Natasha dropped her eyes onto Clint, who was also looking at her. His expression was still asking her if she really wanted to do this, because he actually thought she had a choice in the matter. In theory, it wasn't one of those situations where societal expectations compelled her to do whatever was asked or expected under the guise of free choice, but one where she could easily hand back the scissors and then go crawl into bed if she wanted to.

She took a breath, then set a hand on his shoulder, knowing what she was required to do.

"How short do you want it?"

"Not too short. Just trim it up a bit, I'll go in and have it tightened up tomorrow. Just make sure you don't cut a chunk out completely." She smiled, appreciating his efforts of making her feel a little bit more comfortable by teasing her.

Natasha straightened, then ran the comb through his hair. She gathered a small part, then made the first snip. After that, she fell into a familiar rhythm, one that helped her forget to think so damn much.

"You do this often?" Clint asked after awhile, eyes on his hands. Natasha smiled as she snipped at his hair, combing the cut ends into her hand. She dropped them on the floor and asked "Cut my clients' hair? No, not really."

"I mean, cut hair. Or rather, how often have you done this before?"

"Getting worried about those bare chunks?"

"Getting curious, more like." Natasha glanced at him in the mirror, considering.

"I've done it quite a bit," she said after a short pause. "I cut my grandfather's hair after my grandmother's Parkinson's became too much for her to use scissors properly."

"That was kind of you."

"It was necessary. I figured that since they were paying for the lights, the gas, the water, the sewer, the house, and food, I could pick up some of the slack."

She shifted around to the side of his head, intent on the work. The words were just slipping out, which was incredibly strange, considering the fact that he had had to  _pay_  her to answer his questions the last time they'd spoken.

"You're certainly a better tenant than I was," Clint chuckled, running a hand over his face. "I was so busy thinking about getting out of that hell hole that I didn't bother worrying about helping my parents out. Might have made a difference. A small one, anyways."

"How did you get out of there?" she asked, voice sounding soft, even to her own ears ( _not_ , she told herself, because if she spoke any louder, then the obvious parallels between her and Clint would wake up and tear her to pieces).

"Scrimped, scrounged, and saved every penny, nickel, and dime I could, then got a scholarship for being a whiz bang mathematician. Then I got up, moved out, went to college and found someone who could do something with me."

"Well, you are a  _remarkable_  success story," Natasha said, stepping so that she was in front of him.

"Thank you, I do try," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist. She paused, looking down at him. He had a thoughtful look on his face as he stared up at her, thoughtful and tired.

"What happened to your grandparents?" he asked, catching her completely by surprise. She swallowed, forcing herself to match his gaze. They had been doing so  _well_ , talking about nothing important, why did he have to go kick up her buried woes when she was for once, content?

Clint must have noticed how her hatches were slamming down around him, because he shook his head and sighed. His breath tickled her stomach, but she focused on his face, focused on not cracking. She was focusing so much that her hands had stopped altogether, just hanging in midair.

"Are we gonna have to go back to me paying you for answers?" he asked, giving her a small smile.

"I don't want the money."

The words had stumbled into sound before Natasha could even process them in her head. It had been a vague idea in her mind, one that she hadn't even realized until that point, but now that she had, it was irrefutable.

She  _didn't_  want Clint's money, at least, not for this. She didn't want to trade her life story for a few bills, stripping away all of its value. By accepting any money for it, any at all, then she was saying that her past was not priceless, wasn't worth the breath and pain and delight it had cost her to make in the first place. She had allowed her body to be defined that way already, she didn't need something as precious as her history and all of the other lives it contained to be treated the same.

He tilted his head at her, as if also surprised. Clint took a second to think, arms still looped around her. Then one of his infectious little smiles spread across his face, and he said "Fine, I won't pay you, then. I'll tell you my own story. Then we'll be even. Good enough?"

Natasha looked at him a moment, feeling her quiet anxiety rise up again. Was it really worth it, handing these things away to a practical  _stranger_? Did she want to open up her soul even more than she already had, which was begging for further suffering?

Did she even care?

She tilted his face back down with her hand, and return to quietly cutting his hair. She could feel Clint staying stiff and alert against her as she snipped away, waiting to see if she would say anything.

"My grandparents died when I was almost eighteen," she said quietly, the words seeming to fit in with the dingy bathroom, with the sad yellow light and the distant sound of sirens bleeding in through the walls. Sad, simple, not likely to be fixed or prevented any time soon.

"I had dropped out of school to help them, took on a babysitting job for a teacher in my neighbor hood."

"Where were your parents?"

"Where were yours?" Natasha smiled down at Clint, showing that she wasn't about to let her everything loose on promises alone. He smiled back and shrugged his shoulders, letting his hands drop from her hips.

"They were…around. My mom did what she could to take care of me and my brother, and my dad did what he could to be a terrible father, yet not get reported to the police." His smile turned thin in a way that made Natasha's heart clench, because, for some reason, she didn't want to hear that he had suffered.

"My brother coped by being stupid and getting arrested for just about everything possible, while I tossed myself into school, determined not to end up like them."

"My parents died in a car crash," she whispered. The words were like ghosts, appearing almost from nowhere. Natasha was doing her best not to balk, not to toss the scissors on the ground and run out in the night mostly naked because this was too much, this was too close, this was too  _human_  for her to bear. As good as it felt, having someone listen to her because they actually wanted to know about  _her,_  Natasha Romanoff the person, not that Russian whore that knew how to drive men wild, it also felt absolutely horrible. It was like she was an addict, detoxing from years of continual neglect and suffering, and she didn't especially want to stop being numb and exhausted in favor of hurt and angry. She had skipped that stage for a reason, and she didn't really want to go make it up now.

"Were they good people?"

"Yes. Both my parents and grandparents, they were very good people. They worked hard, they tried to do well with everyone. Their major flaw was not being mean enough to get ahead in this world."

"Not a bad thing," Clint murmured, more to himself than anything. "That's definitely not a bad thing."

Natasha fell silent, thinking about her time with them. It had been difficult, that was for sure, both before and after her parents had died. At least when they had been alive, Natasha hadn't been so acutely accustomed to loss. She got by in school, struggled to learn English, kept her head down. Her main goal was to keep things easy on her parents, to not complain and not worry them about things that didn't need to be worried over, and she mostly succeeded. When they had died, she had been forced to slowly start taking over her grandparent's household. Natasha gradually gained charge over the cooking and cleaning, and generally taking care of her grandparents while they had aged before her eyes. By the time they had died, she was more grateful that they didn't have to struggle anymore than she was sad over her own loss (but then, that might just have been the denial sinking into her bones, which slowly bled into acceptance with no fuss or muss in between. One form of nothingness to the other, just like always with her).

"What happened to your grandparents?"

"They died, like I said. The house had bad pipes, and they asphyxiated while I went to the store."

Natasha said it with a small, tired smile, because she had to admit, it was a quick, peaceful way to go. Absolutely terrifying for her when she had tried to walk in and could barely breathe, of course, but that wasn't the point. She had just  _known_  what had happened when she opened the door that day, more so by the fact that taking a few steps into the room made her feel distant and lightheaded. Thankfully she had retained enough of her senses to break a few windows from the outside to allow clean air into the building, rather than continuing to charge in to her death.

Clint was quiet, thinking about what she had told him. She thought he was going to round off with another set of questions, like why did she drop out of high school, did she regret coming to America, did she have or explore any other options before becoming a street walker, but none came. Finally, the silence became so heavy and oppressive that she spoke, just to break up the air.

"Why did you first start hiring girls?" she asked, eyes set firmly on his hair. Clint laughed, but he didn't sound the least bit amused.

"Why else, I was lonely. I was in college, it was my birthday, and no one really seemed to notice. My brother called, but it was just to ask for money and a place to sleep, because he had gone and pissed off somebody somewhere, and couldn't stay in his usual cardboard box. I still don't think he ever realized what day it was. Anyways, I felt sad and neglected and wanted someone to spend all of their attention on me, whether real or not. So I went driving, found someone…and picked her. Why…"

He trailed off, looking away as if not wanting to ask. Then, slowly, the words came out.

"Why…did you become a prostitute?"

"Because there was no money," she said, pausing the scissors. "My grandfather could only bring in so much by being a plumber, my grandmother was getting sick and needed her medicine, and the little oddsjobs I was picking up on the side weren't cutting it, so…one night I stood out on the street."

She laughed, pressing the back of her wrist to her mouth as she remembered the night. She had been unable to sleep, and had gone for a walk. Prostitution hadn't even been a thought in her head when she set out, but then a man had pulled up and rolled down his window for her. His face had been narrow and nervous, betraying his lack of loyalty to his purpose.

"He offered me thirty dollars if I would just get in the damn car for half an hour. So I did, and I helped my family along. Then, when they died, I was almost eighteen with nowhere to live. I went to the streets, and I made my way for a while. Then the Landlord found me, and…he offered me a home. It…it was a good offer."

"Is it still?" he asked, and Natasha felt her stomach clench. She looked down at him, more impulsively than anything, brows furrowed as she clamped her mouth tight, trying desperately to keep her words inside. His gaze was clear and open yet again, a surgeon's knife cutting aside her skin and bone to get to her soul underneath.

Natasha wanted to go her old standby of hissing something cold and nasty at him, to say something just aggressive and sharp enough to make him back off. She wanted to shove him away, because while  _she_  could ask those questions of herself, while she could mope and complain and hate her world all inside her head, it was an  _entirely_  different matter for someone to spit the words back at her.

They stared at each other for a few moments, until Natasha realized that she was clenching the comb in her palm, the teeth digging into her skin until she thought she might bleed.

She blinked and took a breath, then took another purposeful snip.

"You're done," she murmured, stepping back and setting the scissors and comb on the tank of the toilet. Clint watched her, looking like he wanted to say something, but he just shook his head and stood up.

Natasha didn't meet his eyes as she slipped past him, headed out to grab the broom she had seen earlier in the kitchen. She moved through the room almost blind, fumbling for the broom, which was between the wall and the fridge. Just as she grabbed up the broom and dustpan, she heard Clint turn on the shower and climb in. She turned back to head into the bathroom, but paused when the broom handle smacked into the wall repeatedly. Natasha glanced down at her hands, realizing that they were shaking.

She pressed her back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. Her throat was tightening up, but it wasn't because of tears, it was because she felt like she was drowning in everything that she had been so desperately trying to ignore. It had been rustling just under the surface for a long time, now, but Clint had gone and kicked back the covers, revealing everything.

Natasha stood there a moment, trying to catch her breath, trying to calm herself down. The air from her lungs seemed to have been siphoned out, slipping through her lips and leaving her crumpled and deflated. Was that all she was without her denial? A crumpled husk?

Something thumped in the bathroom, jerking her out of her thoughts. Natasha glanced around, embarrassed for some reason, even though there was no one around to see her.

**when she lays in bed and thinks that she maybe should have said no, he kisses her and says she's done alright.**

Shaking herself, she walked to the bathroom, but paused when she reached the doorway. She knew that generally, she would have been expected to clean up the hair and then go join him in the shower, but…she didn't want to, and that was what brought her up short. She really didn't want to go climb in the shower with a man that she could barely look at, not tonight.

Natasha took a breath, then went to sweep up the hair strewn on the floor. She was silent as she worked, but she could feel Clint in the room, like his presence was brushing up against her skin. She wondered if he could feel her and her silence as she tipped the hair into the trashcan and carted the chair out.

While she was in the kitchen, she wet down a washrag and ran it across her skin to clean off the hair. When she was done, Natasha went over to the bed and crawled in. The sheets and pillows were a little bit too cool against her skin, but she really didn't care. She was tired and unhappy and worried, and all she wanted to do was  _rest._

But her mind kept chasing itself in circles. She kept thinking about what she should have said to Clint, how she should have refused to cut his hair, because she  _knew_  something so perfectly mundane and familiar would lull her into dumping gas all over her removed professionalism and then flippantly taking a blow torch to it. What had happened to compartmentalization? What happened to keeping a steel wall between her, him, and her heart? What happened to not allowing herself to be dragged along by him?

Natasha buried her face in the blankets, clenching her teeth. She needed to stop seeing him. She couldn't do this, she  _could not_  keep servicing Clint, not if he was going to make her remember everything and cause her to be so unhappy (at least, more unhappy than normal). Yet she couldn't agree to it.

As much as it sickened and pained her, Natasha couldn't make that resolution. In theory, she was allowed to choose whom she serviced, how, and when, but in actuality, the Landlord had a tight grip over everything that Natasha did. Even if she  _did_  think she could manage to say no to Clint, the Landlord would toss her in hell for her disobedience.

A sudden rustle from the kitchen made her freeze. Natasha peered over the blankets, realizing that Clint had finished his shower, dried off, and changed into a new pair of underwear. He was now standing in the kitchen, holding what looked to be a piece of bread in his mouth as he wrapped up the bag.

She watched him for a moment, shutting her eyes when he came near. She clenched her toes, waiting, waiting, expecting him to pull back the covers and climb in the bed with her, and at this point, Natasha really didn't know what he would do next.

Clint paused in the bathroom to flick off the light, then he stopped beside the bed. Natasha held her breath, almost shivering from anxiety over what he would do next. She didn't want to have to do anything, especially if it had anything to do with servicing him. Not now, not after dragging herself through an emotional gauntlet.

Clint pulled back the blankets and slipped in beside her. He was shockingly casual as he settled in and slipped his arms around her, like he hadn't just yanked her armor back to reveal  _her,_ a bare, pathetic, and defenseless mess.

"It's alright," he murmured, pressing his lips against her jaw. "You've done alright, Natasha, you've done alright."

"Who told you that?" she whispered back, because she really couldn't help it. She could feel his smile against her skin, and tried to deny how wonderful it felt.

"You did," Clint told her, and kissed her on the mouth, then the neck.

She relaxed beside him, hating herself for being so damn weak, but it was  _so nice_ , allowing herself to just lie there beside him. She closed her eyes, incredibly aware of his face pressed against her neck, like he was giving her a continual kiss.

The thought brought a smile to her lips, because each kiss he had given her that night had been gentle, exactly like his heart.

In the morning, he pulled himself away from her, gotten dressed, and left. They had both lingered far longer than usual, her enjoying the comparative safety and comfort of being wrapped up in his warmth, and him…well, she really didn't know why he stayed.

When she got up, she noticed he had paid her twenty extra dollars (for the haircut), and left an orange sticky note (for kicks and giggles). Both, of course, had gone into her pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE WAITED FOR THIS LAST SCENE FOR AGES YOU DO NOT EVEN UNDERSTAND. Like, for every story I have a couple of scenes that just MAKE it for me, and this is one of them.


	6. don't you ever have to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN This was so much easier to get out why do I procrastinate THINGS AREN'T EVER AS TOUGH AS I THINK WHEN I DO IT RIGHT AWAYYYYYY. Anyways, you guys are just so darling, I can't even. All of your comments were amazing, especially your insights into the characters!
> 
> Also, one of you commented on how you didn't buy the fact that Clint was a mathematician with such a high pay grade, so I'll clear that up real quick - Clint is not a mathematician. He is an engineer, and doesn't quite make six figures, but he is very close ;)
> 
> So now, please enjoy the first update for eyes blue like your ice cold heart of the new year!
> 
> Warnings: allusions to underage prostitution

"Gone"

I won't wake up to the sound of your feet  
Walking down the hall  
Like a soft heartbeat  
I won't wake up  
Cause by the time that I do you'll be gone

I won't have words, I've said all that there is to say  
Cause I know you'll just throw them away  
I won't have words  
Cause by the time that I do you'll be gone

Melody Gardot

* * *

**by now, her drawer is full of sticky notes.**

The act of putting the sticky notes away had become arbitrary and normal to her by now. Three quick motions and she was done. Open, place, close, the end. Brisk, unattached, perfect for her.

Though, if she were _really_ being honest about it Natasha probably dealt with the sticky notes so quickly so as to avoid having to face them. She didn't know how many of those obnoxiously colored papers she had tracked home in her coat pockets. She didn't know how many times she had to act casual and lie whenever she looked at the Landlord and say _'no, I don't care'_.

The especially ridiculous part of her couldn't help but think that it was better if she didn't looking at them for so long. Like maybe the less time she was exposed to physical evidence, the less she would have all those damn _feelings_ about them. But then the practical part of her had to snort and roll its eyes, because she had had those stupid things for one month, two, hell, some for even _three._ If any of that had been true she would never have kept them in the first place.

She hated it. They were an anchor that tied her down to some guy she didn't know but had some perverse attraction to (which was more or less what had happened with the Landlord, and that had ended _so_ neatly for her). They were a risk and a pointless exercise, an addiction that would cause her severe harm before she ever managed to kick it.

She loved those papers, the sweet little secret that she held in her chest, a candy she always held on her tongue. They were something no one else had, a promise and a message all for her and her alone, a gift from a man that saw her as a smile and someone with a story. And she wanted to keep that at all costs.

**a thousand times she tries to throw them away.**

No matter what she felt about the sticky notes they still posed a terrible danger to her. She kept thinking about what would happen should the Landlord find out, what he would think if he found out that she was stock piling little nothings from a client. Nothing good, surely.

So she told herself that she had to take precautions, had to get rid of them for her own safety. As she stumbled from July into August and then on to September, Natasha found herself trying to throw them away, over and over.

Whenever she worked up her courage she would make herself stare at them. She was like any fool glaring up at the sun, cursing it and demanding what made it so special compared to everything else. And for her stubbornness, she was left blind and angry with no hope of rectifying either. She would grab the sticky notes up in great big ugly fistfuls, yanking up the trashcan and poised to slam them in. But her hand would catch and she would set the can back down, drop the sticky notes back in her drawer.

And every time, she felt a little bit of her armor and cold front chip away. She couldn't pretend that nothing bothered her when little bits of paper managed to best her. She would drop into the chair by the vanity, feeling sick and frustrated.

"How long, Natasha?" she would mumble to herself, head in her hands as she slouched over. "How long are you going to dance around for something that is _not worth it?_ "

And each and every time Natasha couldn't answer herself. She honestly did not know.

**she catches the landlord trying to lure in a child. she convinces him to let her take the kid's place.**

It wasn't exactly an unfamiliar sight, seeing the Landlord talking so soft to one of the younger girls. It made Natasha's stomach flip every time she saw it, but she, like all of the others, just kept walking, looked away, closed her door and pretended not to care.

The girl's name was Gracia. She was small for thirteen, had lovely soft brown skin, and the sweetest smile. Natasha loved seeing her smile, because it always seemed like she spent her days reading picture books and receiving hugs and not dragging herself to street corners to make a few bucks.

Natasha really didn't know why she stopped the Landlord from luring Gracia away into his room. It probably wouldn't have been her first time with him, and Natasha was walking on a shaky rope as it was. It might have been because she couldn't stand to see Gracia's sunny smile disappear, even for the day, or because her infallible armor had been shot to shit because of Clint and the way he could look at her like she was human, or anything, really. All that truly mattered, it seemed, was that she had done it.

Before she knew the thought had formed, Natasha was walking across the hall to plant herself in front of the two.

Her common sense and any sort of inclination towards self-preservation had clearly gone out the window as she looked the Landlord in the eye, waiting for him to comment. He raised an eyebrow at her, obviously surprised by her gall, but then gave a wicked smile that said he knew exactly what she was doing.

It wasn't very hard. The Landlord was more amused by her antics than anything and didn't put up much of a fight to keep the girl.

Gracia kept her eyes down the entire time, except for when she looked at Natasha before the two adults moved off down the hall. She seemed on the edge of tears, but Gracia held it all back as she nodded at her. Natasha gave her half a shrug, because she was not supposed to care after little girls that had been tossed to wolves, wasn't supposed to care about anyone other than herself. She couldn't smile at the girl, or wink, or even nod like she wanted to. She instead had to force herself to be indifferent as the devil sweetly led her to his lair.

The entire time, Natasha begged herself not to think for any reason at all. Not to reassure herself that she was being noble, not to hate Gracia for getting in that situation in the first place, not to be disgusted as the Landlord placed kisses he didn't mean on her skin. And for the most part, she did a fair job. Her mind was white noise until after, when they were lounging on his bed, half naked and completely careless.

The room was dark and the air was getting thick with the smoke from the Landlord's cigarette, but she forced herself to stay there. This was his castle, he was the one to dismiss his subjects.

"You are a _very_ strange creature, Natasha."

She jumped at the sound of her name, then turned to look at him. She had been busy watching him blow smoke at the ceiling and trying not to get up and open a window, and hadn't noticed the way his face suddenly turned introspective.

The terrifying thing about the Landlord was how very quiet he could be. His personality was a big one, his voice and very being filled up a room with one breath. When he spoke, it was loud and cheery, when he shouted, it rattled her bones and shook the building foundations. But when he was quiet, it was like an adder was sliding into her bed, waiting to sink its fangs into her skin.

When he spoke to her just then, it was as soft as a kitten's purr.

"You run around being _so_ cold, pretending that ice doesn't melt in your mouth. But we both know that's a lie." He looked at her and Natasha swallowed, hoping this would end well for her.

"Yet unlike every other feeling being, you're not stupid. You know what happens when people come along and get in the way of my plans. You do, don't you?"

"Without a doubt."

"Good. You know what happens when you girls start to get a li'l too big for your britches."

She shrugged as if to say that yes, _of course_ she knew, but the Landlord didn't take those dead grey-green eyes off of her. He was less than an arm's length from her, and his sheer physical presence felt like it was crushing her.

He didn't said anything, simply set his hand on her hair. Natasha dropped her eyes as he wound his fingers through it as if he had the right. She was hardly surprised when he locked his finger in it and yanked her head towards him, but that didn't keep the tears of pain sparking in her eyes.

"Tread lightly, li'l darlin'. I am a reasonable man, but I've got my limits like everyone else. And if you mess it up with me, you'll be in a bundle of trouble, as not everyone is so kind and as thoughtful like as me."

Natasha nodded, said yes, and apologized for the trouble.

**he looks tired when she walks in. they do not talk about last time.**

Natasha was understandably nervous when she knocked on Clint's motel room door. They had both acted casual enough the morning after the haircut, but she had the sneaking suspicion that was because of something more along the lines of shock rather than apathy. Yet everything seemed fine when he opened the door, gave a smile, and gestured her in. Between them, at least.

He looked bad, bags under his eyes and a regret on his lips. She'd seen him not looking his best several times before, when he had been exceptionally drunk or just barely bottling up the anger she saw on so many men's faces, but this was different. Clint had always been the master of his world before, standing on top of the grit and carnage that was other people's lives. But now…now Natasha could only think that he looked like a man that had slipped, and was now being ground to dust, and there was nothing he could think to do to stop it.

Natasha sauntered in and gave some glib, semi-flirtatious/semi-cynical comment, because that was what he was paying her for, not to look pitying and treat him like he might break should she say the wrong thing.

She settled herself at the table, giving Clint the half lidded look of a seductress, because self-indulgent sex was the only panacea this world had taught her. And even though it hadn't yet worked for _her_ , she assumed that it worked for at least _some_ of her clients, and hopefully it would work for Clint.

His smile was still sad, but it turned a little bit warmer. Clint dropped into the chair beside her, body language open, like he had been beaten into submission, and not like he was allowing her in.

They began the casual small talk, discussing nothing. Natasha was thankful for the continued normalcy at first, but as the minutes dragged on and on and he gave no sign of _stopping,_ she started to get antsy. Usually, by now he would have pulled her onto his lap, or slipped off her dress, or slipped his hand up her thigh, but instead he just _sat there,_ talking away. Clint must have noticed her vague agitation, but he really didn't seem to care. Finally, though, after what seems to be _hours_ (but is, in fact, only thirty minutes), he starts saying what's been on his mind.

His fiancée. The perfectly imperfect Miranda, the one that required Clint to tell her about all of his travels and to periodically get haircuts and was so, so sweet to him. The girl he couldn't be bothered to sleep with every few weeks because there were prostitutes to be had.

Clint told Natasha about her. About how she had a dimple when she pursed her lips, the way she had mostly navy shirts when her favorite color was a warm brown, how she had a terrible singing voice but whistled like a bird. His voice was soft and distant and broke a number of times, but he didn't stop and she didn't interrupt him.

But...she didn't like listening. It killed her to hear about this woman who was so marvelous and wonderful, because it reminded her that there were no happy endings. Had Natasha gone through any other set of events, she could have been this woman, who was funny, smart, confident, and beautiful. She could have been engaged to someone who was intelligent, wealthy, kind, polite, and respectful, and had the most delightful habit of cutting through people's facades to their core beneath and getting their truth. She could have been with Clint.

But Clint was a liar, and Miranda was a fool. He called Miranda beautiful and lovely and yet sought some sort of carnal comfort from other women, avoided her, sounded aggrieved when he mentioned her. Miranda was so blind as to not see the monster before her face, see the lack of care and effort her fiancé gave her, see his habit of hiring prostitutes after coming home from business trips rather than going home. Or, if she _did_ notice, she was naive enough that he would stay if she welcomed him back every time.

Natasha could have been this woman she had never met. She could have had that glorious, glittering reality, but she would have also been faced with an underbelly just as dark and miserable as the one she was facing with now. And while she would never have wished her current situation on anyone for anything, she was certain that she wouldn't want to be cursed with such a hollow, consuming relationship, either. At least now she knew what she did and did not have.

**he asks if she wants a drink, she says yes.**

It was no small relief when he asked her if she would like a drink. She smiled and gave sultry _'why not?_ ', because Natasha knew that this is what he wanted, probably needed. He got out a bottle of vodka and two glasses, splashing some in and setting one before her.

"My uncle always said that vodka was supposed to be taken the way Russians were," Natasha mused, picking up the glass.

"How's that?"

"Cold and bitter."

"Well, I never had an uncle that I ever got to talk to, but I had my brother," Clint sighed, trying to smother his smile at her joke. It gave her a twinge to see that he looked no happier when he smiled. "He said that if you were going to get shitfaced, you might as well do it right."

"He sounds like a man with a plan."

"He's a man with a _lot_ of plans. Intended results, however…less so."

Natasha thought about making some sort of toast to unintended results, but instead rolled her eyes and downed her damn vodka. Clint offered her another, which she accepted, because she noticed that his glass has been emptied just as quickly.

As she watched him, Natasha could only think that this was an act of kindness. The only reason she was putting the drink to her lips was because she knew he wanted to forget, but wouldn't do it alone. A part of her wanted to get up and leave, because she desperately did not want to have a drunk Clint reminiscing over the woman he'd betrayed, but she knew she had to stay (because the Landlord would kill her otherwise, she told herself, and not because Clint was too pathetic to leave alone).

"Natasha," he finally whispered, and she straightened, because this was the first time all night he had spoken and actually been directing it at her.

"Yes?"

"She's gone. Miranda...Miranda left me."

Even though Natasha didn't really care about this Miranda woman, didn't care about Clint's life outside of his wallet and how he treated her specifically, hearing the words still tugged at her stomach. It hurt losing people, whether because of a gas leak or because their own two feet carried them up and out of that life. And from what she could tell, Clint had very, very few people in his life that he cared about.

She wanted to say something, wanted to touch his hand and make him feel the least little bit better. Natasha swallowed as he stared into his glass, all sorts of hopeless.

**around two he leans over to kiss her.**

Instead of doing the human thing and trying to comfort him, Natasha just watched him, like he was the creature in the zoo this time, not her. She sat there and she watched him pour another class, and another, and another, waiting for the moment when he would kiss her, or work her out of her clothes, or _something._ Because that was her job. She was to wait and be used however rich men wanted.

Eventually, Clint kisses her. Natasha can barely suppress her sigh of relief, because kissing was not talking and she thought her head might break.

It was two in the morning, they both smelled like vodka, and their lips tasted of regrets, but Clint still kissed her. It was messy, a short little thing placed at the corner of her mouth, which was unusual for Clint. Still, she couldn't criticize him very much as he moved to her ear, jaw, then neck, because this was what she had _begged_ for. She shivered as he reached her collar bone, waiting for his hands to undo the buttons on the back of her shirt, but they never came.

Clint pulled away, eyes on the floor. Natasha drew in a breath, and tried very, very hard not to feel hurt.

**he gets up and walks to the bed. she follows because that is what she is supposed to do.**

Clint stood up and laid down on the bed, sighing to himself. Natasha took a second, pulling herself together, and decided to prod things along. Clearly Clint wasn't going to be handling rebound sex himself.

She stood up and sauntered over to him. She knew her smile was dark and delicious, the downfall of many a man. Natasha climbed onto the bed, on all fours above him as she kissed him. Each one was slow and tempting, the exact thing that would made him fall apart. She undid one of his shirt buttons to kiss his throat, waiting for him to give in. Clint clenched his teeth, and she didn't know if it was because of lust or what, but then he put a hand on her shoulder. He pushed her off of him, heaving another sigh.

"Go to sleep, Natasha," he mumbled, sounding absolutely miserable.

Natasha stayed still, back to Clint, trying not to feel sick because of how much he had wounded her pride. She was there to have sex with him. That was the _point_ of a prostitute, not to listen to him sulk and pine over a woman that he didn't even care about half the time.

In a few moments, Natasha was absolutely _fuming_ , upset that he had dragged her into caring, and even more upset that the whole thing bothered her in the first place. To her utter rage and horror, tears pricked at her eyes, and then quietly worked their way to the blanket underneath her. She held her breath, staring at the ceiling and praying that she wouldn't start gasping and sobbing and tumbling into a giant ugly mess. She didn't even remember the last time she had broken into tears in front of someone else (mostly because she did most of her crying in the dead of night as she walked back to the boarding house, or when she was locked away in her room and buried under her nest of pillows and blankets), and she sure as hell wasn't going to embarrass herself on such an atrocious level by doing it now.

She let out her breath, then dragged one in, then out, then in, then out, and finally, she started to feel that awful tightness in her throat go away. The heat of crying still clung to her face, but Natasha knew she would be able to pass for normal in a few seconds.

Clint shifted beside her, and though he didn't toss his arm over her like normal, he kissed the side of her neck.

"I never meant for it to go like this," he whispered into her hair, and even though she was still angry and uncomfortable, she felt just the slightest bit better, because…for some _stupid_ reason, she could pretend that he hadn't meant to upset her, hadn't meant to treat her like _nothing,_ like a simple tool to get over his now former fiancée.

Natasha closed her eyes, wanting to cry again as she let herself find comfort in the fact that he had simply told her to stop rather than send her away, that he had sought her company in the first place, that he was pressed up against her side and giving her warmth.

When she woke up, her clothes were on, he was gone, the cash was on the nightstand and the sticky note was on the door frame. She sat up on the bed, feeling a little bit lost as she saw all the little traces of Clint, but not…Clint.

Natasha rubbed her face and stood up, not caring to wonder why it bothered her as she tugged on her coat and grabbed the sticky note on her way out the door.


	7. i give it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could just post something that is nothing but my analysis of Clint and Natasha in this story. I have so much to say about them, and what makes them the way they are, asdfjkl; I CAN'T EVEN. But at the same time, it's really hilarious because I can't think of anything to say during the author's notes. UGH WHY.
> 
> Warning: a scene of domestic abuse under the heading 'he doesn't believe her'. Non-graphic, and non-sexual, but involves a person being stabbed with needles.

"Down My Avenue"

Down my avenue the sun don't shine on the street  
Down my avenue all the people walking drag their feet  
Down my avenue everyone you meet is full of gloom  
And the shade of their face is one of impending doom

Let me tell you now  
You don't know what it's like unless you live here  
All I wanna do is just to scream and shout into their ears  
Hey people why do you think it's all right to go and hurt me

Melody Gardot

* * *

**the next time she sees him, it's on the street.**

After so many nights of seeing Clint in the murky safety of a dark hotel room, it was a little jarring for Natasha to see him in the open daylight. She wasn't in her hooker boots, he wasn't treating his expensive suit like ratty jeans and a t-shirt. They were two people, casually roaming the streets of Manhattan that just so happened to bump into each other.

When she recognized him, every single part of Natasha's being was screaming _do not,_ but like so often these days, the words were in the open and she was suddenly striding over to him, angry and needing to _do_ something. Clint looked mildly surprised to be hearing his name in the middle of Central Park on a Thursday morning, but took her in his stride. He gave her a casual smile, set aside his newspaper, and tilted his head like he just _knew_ she was going to say something delightful and clever, and he wanted to take in every word.

She _hated_ him.

Natasha honestly didn't know why. It had been almost a week since he had last hired her, since he had gotten drunk and his fiancée had walked out on him. And yet, through all that time, she still saw the uncertain shame in his eyes when she huddled up in her bed. The way he had looked at her had clawed at her heart, as much as she hated to admit it, because she could see that he was asking her why, _why_ had he been given the one person in the world that he could never care about until she was so far gone. Because Miranda wasn't a person he actually cared about. She was simply a possession of his, a fixture in his house. He expected her to be there hanging on his wall every day, but when she was broken, thrown away, or just got up and left, that what when he started to value her.

It made Natasha wonder just what _she_ was to Clint, and then she wondered why she ever cared.

Remembering all of that now, all of the hurt and frustration and horrified revelations of his character, it made Natasha feel vaguely sick. And then with the casual, almost flippant way he reacted towards her, suddenly her mild irritation sparked into an upheaval of emotion that she could barely control.

**there was a rush in taking matters into her own hands, she decided.**

"Why did you do that?"

Natasha stopped a few feet away from him, glaring at him with no restriction. There was something oddly invigorating about taking that leap, of launching into action, and she made sure to ride the high until through what she had intended to say. Clint furrowed his brows in a perfectly innocent way, and shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you go _call me up_ if you weren't even going to _do_ anything?"

Clint blinked a couple times, like she had slapped him and he was trying to recover. For the briefest second, Natasha could see a fault in his mask, could see the shame, displeasure, and even _panic_ in his little boy blue eyes. Then it was gone, a secret pulled from her and tucked away for forever.

"I…don't really see what the problem is," he said after a moment, and Natasha wanted to scream, wanted everyone in the park to turn and glare at him and realize just what a terrible person he was. She looked away, too angry to speak for a few moments, and of course, he waited like the perfect gentleman he feigned to be.

"Why did you pay me when I did _nothing_? You made a fool out of me, you know that? I have _one job,_ and you can't just _not_ let me—"

Natasha cut herself off, because she couldn't say it. She couldn't say that her only purpose these days was to whore herself out so that the Landlord could rob her of practically all her money. She also couldn't say that part of the reason she was so angry was because she was _scared._ She certainly needed the money he had given her, but she also didn't feel right in having it, because she hadn't earned it. For most other call girls, this would have been fine, because money was money, especially if it was going back to their pimp. But for her, for the Landlord…

He preached the law of 'do what I tell you to do, and nothing else, or there _will_ be trouble', and she had violated that enough already. The littlest things could tip him over the edge, and she wasn't ready to go find out if this counted. The money Clint had given her had felt like a beacon to the jackals in the boarding house, screaming from her coat pocket as she had walked up to her room. And that was without the added guilt of her tucking some of it away for her own use.

Clint knew what she wasn't saying, what she wasn't admitting. He had to. But he stayed quiet, let her come back to her thought.

"Why did you give me the money?"

He looked at her, then down somewhere near her feet. Clint nodded, pursing his lips like he was really going over what she had said, taking it apart bit by bit in his mind. He stood up, still giving that little nod as if to say he finally got where they both stood, and how they were supposed to proceed. When he looked back up at her, his smile was sad and honest and the exact thing she had not wanted to see.

"I paid you because I find your time to be valuable, just as much as anyone else's."

Natasha glared at him, convinced that he was mocking her even more, but he simply kept smiling, like maybe she would start to understand. Finally she couldn't take it anymore, and turned on her heel, unable to look at him anymore. As she walked away, all she could think about was how she had never been repelled by a person more than she had at that one moment in time. He had messed with her head because _he thought her time was valuable._ What a joke.

As she walked away, Natasha felt herself go light headed, because she had been horrendously stupid over _nothing._ Generally, when people in her line of work met their customers in the middle of the road, the immediate course of action was to sprint the other direction. Being caught could result in losing work, being arrested, or even being beaten. Natasha knew that some wealthy businessman's word would hold more weight than some immigrant prostitute that clearly couldn't take adequate care of herself.

Underneath all of that guilt and terror and embarrassment, though she also felt the tiniest bit satisfied. Finally, _finally_ , she had bitten back at someone that had upset her, and that sort of euphoria could never be bought.

Natasha was caught between emotions the entire way home. Seething rage, shame, and satisfaction tore at her insides, tossing her head around to the point where she was all turned around and wasn't quite sure what she really felt anymore. Natasha found herself almost enjoying her vilification of Clint, because self-righteousness was a much better friend than guilt.

But later, when she was a little bit more removed from her feelings over the shocking _stupidity_ of her actions, the more she could analyze those brief couple of moments of conversation. And to her horror, Natasha felt…even _more_ hollow.

Clint had done her quite the favor by paying her. Had she gone home with nothing to show…things could have turned ugly. She was already late on her payment to the Landlord, and she wasn't exactly rolling around in cash. Plus she wasn't thoughtlessly handing over every cent to him. Natasha always made sure to keep just a little for herself, just in case. She had learned by now that a little just in case was a good thing.

By the time Natasha climbed out of the subway and meandered back to the boarding house, her hands were shaking, and she felt sick from gratitude.

**the landlord stops her, asks her where all the money is. she says that he has it all.**

Natasha knew she only had so long until the Landlord caught on to the fact that she wasn't handing over all of her profits to him. She had just been hoping she would have had a little longer.

It was late when he confronted her. The boarding house was just an empty shell, with most all of its contents hoisting themselves up and shuffling out to various street corners and motel rooms, but Natasha didn't mind. She liked it when the place was empty, because then there was no need to constantly be watching her back. Which turned out to not be the case at all.

"Natasha, so glad you're here."

She jerked around at the sound of the Landlord's voice, heart catapulting its way into her throat. The Landlord was leaning in her doorway, looking relaxed as could be. She smoothed the terror out of her face, and tilted her head.

"What do you need?" she asked, pretending to not be hyperaware of every breath he took as she hung up her coat and tossed her shoes into the closet.

"There was just this little matter I wanted to discuss with you. Away from the other girls, you understand," he said, shrugging and giving the smile that told her that it was a very big matter and that she had better solder down her hatches and fast.

She waited, knowing that this was just a game to him, making her scared out of her mind before he cut to the chase.

"You…haven't been paying your dues, Natasha."

He looked so mild standing there, leaning against her doorframe. His hand were in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, shirt partially unbuttoned as his suspenders hung around his waist, but his voice had a discordant edge that she absolutely did not like.

"It's been…a little tough lately," she sighed, turning to face him. "And I know that you don't like getting only part of the payment, so I just…I just held on to it, until I had enough."

It sounded pathetic to her own ears. Natasha bit her cheek as the Landlord raised his eyebrows at her, hating the way her voice had shrunk into almost nothing. He sighed through his nose, as if to say that he _really_ needed to stop going so easy on her, then nailed her with those empty green eyes.

"Li'l darlin', you haven't paid rent in a couple a _months_ , much less your _other_ fees. And I've been kind, waitin' for you because of your history and standing in this place. But you just are not setting a _good example_ for the other girls." The Landlord took a step into her room as he spoke, a trespass she felt almost physically. _No one_ went into her room without her permission. That was a law in the boarding house, a girl's room was _hers_ , and no one else's.

She tensed up, almost without helping it, waiting for what was going to happen next.

"Now, normally, there wouldn't be so big a problem with all a this, but some things just don't _add up,_ know what I'm sayin'?"

She shook her head, drawing in on herself, trying to increase the room between her and him in any way possible as he came closer and closer.

"See, you've been seeing plenty a customers. Just your requests alone should have covered _some_ of your dues already, but _nothing_ has come in. Now, how does that work?"

"I've been over indulgent," she stammered, wishing that she hadn't been so damn stupid. "I've been going to the city, spending money I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, I'll make it up right away."

**he doesn't believe her.**

"Now, Natasha," he whispered, now less than a step away from her, "we both know things don't work like that."

Natasha couldn't help the pathetic sound she made as he grabbed her arm, part yelp, part whimper. She gave a few feeble attempts at pulling out of his grip, or trying to talk him out of it, but the Landlord was an avalanche. All she could really do was be carried along as he took her to his room.

"Please, please, I can fix this," she found herself saying as he paused to open his door. "Just give me a chance, I'll do whatever needs to be done, I swear."

The Landlord paused at this, and turned to look at her. Natasha felt dread drag her stomach to the floor, because he wasn't considering her words. Not in any way that would allow her to be let loose.

"Fix this? Darling, you can't _fix this._ Nothing's _broken_ , not you, the system, nothin'. What's wrong is that you have _forgotten_ how it all works, and now I just need to remind you."

He pushed open the door, and shoved her inside. Natasha glanced around, trying to size things up, trying to figure out if there was _anything_ she could do.

"Have a seat," the Landlord said, gesturing at his bed. She flicked her eyes at it, then gave a small shake of her head. Natasha began backing up, chewing the side of her cheek, not caring if she looked absolutely terror-stricken, because she was and there wasn't much else she could do, and what did it matter if she looked scared out of her mind? Pity was the only tool she had left.

But the Landlord wasn't the type of person that took pity because someone was in fear. He was more the sort to revel in it.

"I said, _have a seat,_ " he snarled, taking a large step and grabbing her arm again. He jerked her around and slammed her onto the bed, where she scrambled back. It was like she was in a cage, a mouse trapped with a snake.

"Now, _Natasha,_ " the Landlord drawled, snapping out a hand to catch her ankle. He dragged her towards him, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders so that she was pinned to his side. She tried wriggling away to get some space to breathe, but he was too strong for her, too strong for anyone.

"Here, fix your face," he said, grabbing hold of her face and jerking her head to look at him. She stared at him, pleading him with her eyes while she tried to wish herself away. He examined her for a moment, taking in the way he squashed her cheeks out of place, the way her eyes were wide with terror, and how her hair had been disheveled. He smiled and let go of her cheeks.

"Natasha, you _know_ that I don't want to do this, right? I am just trying to ensure that I can keep my business afloat. And if some of my employees, some of my _girls,_ go try to short me…well, sometimes things have to be less than fine and dandy. For the good of the order, ya see."

Natasha didn't dare tear her eyes away from him as he clamped her to his side, wanting to have any sort of warning she could get. He was no longer looking at her, but was instead staring off at some indeterminate spot in the air. He glanced at her, flashing her an almost sincere smile, then leaned over to his nightstand.

She didn't know what it was he picked up, but the moment he pulled his arm away from her, she tried to squirm away. The Landlord grabbed her back, again planting her to his side.

"It's all for the good of the order," he repeated, putting her hand on his thigh. She tensed involuntarily, feeling like she might be sick.

"It's for the good of _everyone._ You get that, right? It's so the other girls aren't tossed out onto the street because a little anarchy slipped in. They need me, they need my rules," he said, spreading her hand out. Natasha yanked in a breath as she saw the needle in his hand, and snatched back her hand.

The look the Landlord gave her was of death and ice. She swallowed, shaking her head at him, pleading with him. He pointedly took her hand back and placed it on his thigh, and said, "They need to know what's good for them."

"Please," she begged, pulling her hand back. The Landlord grabbed her hand, making her flinch as she felt like her bones might cave. He jerked her arm across her body towards him so that she couldn't sit up straight, and was unable to writhe away. The Landlord grabbed her face again, and hissed the words in her ear.

" _Listen here,_ Natasha. I will not have you _take my money_ away from me. This whole place, these girls' _lives_ are only made possible by what I do and what I collect from y'all. And if you try to do something like this again, to _disrupt_ everyone's lives, their happiness, then I promise you I _will_ make damn certain you suffer."

She hated herself for it, but she cried. Natasha sobbed and begged him to not do this, to _please, please,_ not do this, but he only seemed to become more satisfied with himself and how he ripped her soul apart and delicately nailed the pieces on his wall.

Natasha supposed that the needle was a metaphor of some sort. It was small and delicate, and could have been bent or broken by her if she tried. But when wielded by the Landlord, when stabbed into her hands and thighs, it was an almost debilitating hurt.

The Landlord ended up kneeling across her legs, restraining her after she had tried kicking him chest. His hand was knotted up in the collar of her shirt, leaving a bruise where he had grabbed part of her skin as well. Natasha didn't know where the needle had gone, lost somewhere in the chaos of flailing, stifled shrieks, and snarled words about how she had done all of this to herself.

Natasha couldn't breathe properly, the air dragging itself into her lungs in shuddery bursts. Each one tasted like cruelty and tears. She wanted to smear them off of her face, but the Landlord had pinned down her hands, leaving the tears to drag themselves down her face and make her skin crawl.

The Landlord's perfect, charismatic, suave façade had disintegrated before her eyes, leaving him a mess of rumpled shirt and mussed hair. He looked like a tired man, one that had been through a day that had lasted several years, and had never been able to sleep. He looked like someone that could have been helped, or even offer some help, if he were able. But it was his eyes, his dead, hard, flat grey-green eyes that exposed the truth. There was a disgusting amount of satisfaction and even _delight_ there, letting her and the rest of the world know that he was a human horror, walking the earth and reaping sorrow.

"Natasha," he whispered in her ear, voice low and even, but still incredibly abrasive. "How could you make me do this to you?"

She didn't answer, merely turned her face away and locked away another sob.

**when she gets back to her room, she is sick with fear and regret.**

She couldn't walk straight. Her hands throbbed, her thighs stung, and her throat was raw from screaming.

Natasha didn't know what time it was. She didn't know how long she'd been with the Landlord, or if anyone had heard or knew what had happened. She didn't care, honestly.

Her head was white noise when she stumbled into her room. She closed the door, fell on her bed, stared at the wall as she breathed.

Eventually other people came down the hall, settled into their rooms, went about their business. She closed her eyes, trying to forget them, trying to forget how much she hurt (which turned out to be an impossible feat).

The worst thing about it all was that rather than just suffer and hate him and know that he was a despicable creature, he had managed to coax an apology out of her. He had hurt her and for some disgusting, _perverse_ reason…she had apologized for it all.

Natasha was a wreck, and she had never learned how to fix herself. She just knew how to bury and pretend and try to run away.

But she never did get out. She just turned corner after corner until she was back where she had started, torturing herself with promises of freedom, then shy away at the last possible second. Then, she would go crawling back, begging to be let back into the very thing she knew would kill her. And the hopeless reason she did all of this was because she absolutely did not believe that she could make it on her own.

Hell, she didn't even know if she could make anything on her own.


	8. not here to talk about that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this chapter, because I feel like it's far more personal for Natasha. There are fewer boundaries that she holds herself to, now, and I like that. Torment is infinitely more fun to write than flat out denial :)

"Bedroom Hymns"

This is as good a place to fall as any  
We'll build our alter here  
Make me your Maria  
I'm already on my knees

I'm not here looking for absolution  
Because I found myself an old solution

This is his body, this is his love  
Such selfish prayers, I can't get enough

Florence + the Machine

* * *

**the next time she comes, there isn't much chitchat.**

It took a while, but Clint did call her again. A part of her was a little nervous, because they were slipping back into the pattern of him waiting weeks until he summoned her, but then she reminded herself that by now, Clint was probably addicted to her and the experience she specifically could provide. That was something that all the veterans of her great and noble profession had learned. Make the moment special, make the client think that what was given was theirs and theirs alone, and make them crave it until they couldn't think straight.

Some distant, still-sane part of her recognized that she gave nowhere near the same attention to her other regulars, but it was a very small, shy part of her that didn't have much say in anything. By now, Natasha had set aside her anger and anxiety over being caught up in Clint. It had happened so long ago that she wouldn't even know where to start to try undoing it.

Despite all of that, she still found her stomach writhing itself into knots as she walked towards the address given. She had harassed him in public about what had happened when they had last been together, which was an absolute and utter no-no in her profession. Whatever happened, there was to be no recognition between girl and client once they were out in the light of day.

Natasha knocked on the door, dragged in one last breath to calm herself, and tried to look self assured and uninterested in everything outside of Clint's motel room.

Clint opened the door, and Natasha barely had time to step inside, say hello, and shrug out of her coat before he was kissing her neck. She gasped in surprise, not quite sure how to deal with this sudden change in behavior as Clint pressed her up against a wall. He had no problem in cutting to the chase, but generally there was more than a hello and a smile before they got to things.

But now he kissed her like he wanted to forget, like there was a fire in his belly and it was killing him in a way that only her touch could prevent. Clint held her like there was nothing else in the world, slipped his hand under her clothes like they may not survive, and pressed his lips to her skin like she was the last thing in the world he got to touch, and he wanted to make every moment he had count. Natasha played along, pulling at his hair, kissing his throat, teasing him this way and that as he yanked off her dress. She couldn't even pretend that it was because she wanted to help soothe him, in some small ridiculous way. The truth was, there was some despicable, capitalistic part of her recognized that this was a man in need, and he would pay for her means to soothe him. And there was some terrible, selfish part of her that knew that she was addicted to this, to him, and she would gladly be engulfed in his flames if it meant she got to act like she was something special to him, if only for a moment.

They tumbled onto the bed, a mess of hands and legs and raw instinct. Natasha shuddered as he kissed her spine, then unsnapped her bra with his teeth. She rolled over and undid his shirt, tearing it off over his head as he started to bend down to crush his lips against hers yet again—

Natasha hissed in a gasp when she saw the large ugly splotch across his chest. Clint ignored her, kissing her jaw as she reeled, trying to sort out what she had seen. Natasha couldn't help but push his face away as she sat up, eyes widening with horror when she saw that the splotches, no, bruises, great ugly _bruises_ , spread across his shoulders, side, and even arms.

**she has to stop.**

"Clint," she whispered, the words coming out like sandpaper, "Clint, oooooh no, _Clint_ , what happened?"

Even in her own ears, Natasha's voice sounded strange. She sounded upset, yes, but she also sounded like she was tired, and not very impressed with what she was looking at. The part of her in charge of her voice made it seem like she was more worried about the time and energy it would take to deal with this new problem, rather than Clint's well being. The way her insides seemed to be twisting themselves around her spine and ribs, though, told her that this was not at all true. It was probably just as well. She still wasn't sure if she could let her feelings out and not make a mess.

Clint clenched his hands in the bed covers, finally stopping the charade, finally falling still as he weighed an answer. He looked up at her, and she noticed how wretched he looked. His eyes were looking like more of a washed out grey than blue, and there were great big bags under them that said he hadn't been resting. If there had been enough life, Natasha was certain he would have looked sickly pale.

She knew she was being a little perverse, but she couldn't help but think that it was kind of a novelty to see someone else whose body was wreckage.

She stared at him, suddenly scared. Natasha didn't know what to do here, she had no idea whether signs of a rather horrific beating constituted enough for her to actually show a bit of humanity and try to take care of him, or if she was supposed to yank on whatever clothes were nearest to her and _run_ because she did not want to drag herself down this road of open compassion. That wild and stupidly rash part of her wanted to hold his head in her hands as she tried to comfort him in any way she could, and the power it had over her was so, so strong. She knew that now, this second right here, would be the time to commit and there would be no chance after. But she also knew that she had already used her bear-soul-and-get-out-of-the-consequences-free card, and she didn't have any spares. So she just sat there, tight lipped and appropriately horrified as he tried to cover up his shame and his truth.

**he doesn't want to tell her where they're from.**

"It's nothing, Natasha. Just got a little careless when I got out of bed. It's fine."

It honestly made her sick to hear him lie like that.

She stared at him, expression clearly saying that it was _not_ fine, that it was terrifying and probably exceptionally painful. He cracked a dull smile, more because that's what a person did in a situation like this (when they weren't wincing or maybe even crying from pain).

"Don't mind me, Natasha. I'm fine."

And while she did not smile, or say okay, or really accept his words in any sort of way, she did nod, because she had watched the moment for human empathy come and then had waved it farewell as it had gone. Natasha closed her eyes, took a breath, and kissed his fingers, because that seemed to be the only part of him that was not bruised and tattered.

Natasha didn't mention it again that night. She kept the words locked up in her chest along with all the other thousands of things she never let herself say, and tried not to feel so hurt over it. Clint didn't talk about it, didn't allude to it, didn't make any reference to it at all, like he would have normally. Whatever had caused this, it was raw and ugly and painful and not something he wanted to ever face again (but somehow, she had a feeling that he absolutely would).

They may not have spoken about it, but it was the only thing on Natasha's mind. Before they had been animals, rough and careless and base. Now, Natasha could only think that Clint was made of feathers, fragile and very capable of breaking apart in her hands. And that, out of everything, was the very last thing she ever wanted.

So she was gentle. She caressed and brushed when she knew he wanted her to claw and yank, because she couldn't bear to be an accomplice when he wanted to tear himself apart.

**the landlord makes nice with her.**

She knew it was coming, but it didn't keep her skin from crawling when she saw the Landlord in the hallway. He was as relaxed as ever, slouching at the top of the stairs. He tossed her a lazy smile, which she acknowledged, but not return. She had needed to go downstairs to talk to one of the other girls about a certain misplaced skirt, but she could also duck into a different girl's room and hide out until he was gone (she couldn't hide in the bathroom, because there weren't any witnesses there, and she had learned by now that she _needed_ witnesses).

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, ease up there," he said, snapping out a hand to grab her arm. Natasha nearly lost her balance as he swung her around, already imagining the bruise on her wrist. She couldn't help but feel her toes clench and the cords stick out in her neck as she faced him.

_Don't look cold, don't look scared, don't look angry, don't don't don't don't **please don't.**_

"Where're ya going?"

"I just needed to talk to Rae," Natasha said. The words just tumbled from her lips, excuses that barely entered her head before they were spoken. To her immense credit, she sounded as casual as he did. He was still holding her wrist, but his grip had loosened just a little bit. He was making her stay, but he was allowing her to pretend that she had a choice.

"That can wait. I was thinkin' we could talk real quick."

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asked, and he gave her a wry smile.

"Well, I guess in a manner of speaking, but I don't want you to feel _pressed_..."

She waited like she was supposed to, giving a shrug and studiously keeping her eyes on him. The few other girls in the hall were starting to gather, hiding out of sight but listening to every word. A couple were brave enough to stand in plain view, one of which was Alexandria. Natasha looked away from her, and focused back on the Landlord.

"I was thinkin' that you looked a little worn lately. You could use a break."

"No, I'm fine," she said, trying not to think about how much she sounded like Clint. She blinked, and those awful bruises all over his body sprang out at her. Was that her? Was she really so _pathetic_ when she hurt and she lied about it?

She shook her head, just another attempt at knocking him out of his head. It was just as successful as all of the others had been. What made it all so terrible, what made _this_ injury so much worse than the other stream of injuries she had seen in thee boarding house, was the fact that someone so refined and in control as Clint Barton shouldn't be treated like dogs, like her.

Natasha gave a thin smile to the Landlord, wishing that she could pull out of his reach. He shrugged and adjusted his grip on her, so that now he was holding her hand like it was a pearl. It was almost hilarious, how apt that imagery was. Of course the Landlord would value some sort of rock over a person.

"Oh, _c'mon_ , we can all see how much you work. Why don't ya just come on out with me, and we'll take it easy."

"Are you sure?"

The words were out of Natasha's mouth before she could stop them, and she felt her stomach freeze. The Landlord raised his eyebrows, then laughed.

"Sure? 'Course I'm sure. Wouldn't be askin' ya if I weren't. Go change, put on somethin' nice."

She was forgiven. Moreover, the Landlord was ready to act like nothing had happened, and treat her like his little darling yet again. Still, Natasha felt herself hesitate, not sure she wanted to wander back into such sickening territory. But, by the grace of everything above, the Landlord let her get away with her contemplation of mutiny.

He chuckled and flicked a piece of her hair, saying something about how she didn't have to wear something _nice_ , but something fun and decent. Then she moved towards her room, because that was what she was supposed to do, even if it made her stomach yank itself into knots and her head want to burst.

As she walked past, Natasha studiously ignored Alexandria's glare. The girl had eased up on making it her life's mission to give Natasha a special brand of hell, but after this, Alexandria was sure to redouble her efforts. Natasha didn't care, though (or at least, didn't care comparatively). With the complicated matter of being relieved at dodging more of the rest of the Landlord's wrath, being disgusted at being the object of his pretend affection, _and_ being plagued by those horrible memories of Clint, Natasha had absolutely zero time for Alexandria and her petty hostilities.

**she hates him, but knows that she has to play along, has to act like she was never hurt in the first place.**

A few minutes later, Natasha was changed and downstairs, waiting for him to pull up his car. She forced herself to give a pleasant smile as he came around the corner, when really, all she wanted to do was run away shrieking into the night at the thought of getting in a car with him.

Still, she got in his car, faked her smiles flawlessly, and let him carry her away to where ever it was they were going. She knew what his game was. He wanted her to feel nice and adored and loved, to feel like he cared for her and only her, out of everyone in the whole wide world. He'd done it before with all of the girls, partially because this was his way of 'apologizing' for being a monster, partially because he had to lure them into dependency before they would agree to live in the boarding house, but it had felt _personal_ to Natasha.

Obviously, that was the point, but she still felt ashamed over how well it had worked. Granted, Natasha had been alone and desperate when this handsome, charming, and wealthy man had come along and given her something she had called love, but she should have _known_ better. There was no way a stranger could really have thought her the most precious being in the universe, but he had certainly made her feel like it (this, out of all the things she had learned from the Landlord, had been the only good one. She was now a master at playing pretend, with clients, with the Landlord, with herself). Back then, Natasha would have given him the world then, if he had so much as glanced at it.

Now, all of this smiling and laughing and bedroom eyeing was making her face hurt.

He took her to some place that was part lounge, part club. The music was low and tasteful and seductive, and there were couches everywhere for people to alternately relax and make out on. Natasha, however, wasn't about to do either, not with a snake curled around her waist.

The Landlord made small talk with her, got her a drink, introduced her to some friends. They were all exceptionally comforting and complimentary, saying how nice her dress was, how gorgeous she looked, what a lovely sense of humor she had. Their eyes showed how hollow and vapid they were inside, while the Landlord's, underneath the smiles and the warm conversation, had nothing to show. He was still empty inside, not because he had neglected to fill his head and heart with things of importance, like their companions, but because he had burned away all of his insides until he was just ash.

Natasha couldn't help but think that was the exact thing she had wanted to do, not long ago. And if she had, if she had burned away her insides in a haze of apathy and selfishness, would she have been better off? Would she have not felt the agony of seeing Clint almost literally be torn to pieces, and then lie about it to her face? Would he even be an object in her life, or just some other john, looking to get off on some disposable entertainment? Would she have subjected others to the horrors she was facing off right now, just to get ahead?

Natasha didn't let herself answer that question, because she already felt sick as it was. She didn't need further horrific realizations compounding her problem.

All this Natasha hid as she laughed and rolled her eyes and made light with people she didn't know. The Landlord stayed close to her the entire time, with his chest brushing her back, arm pressed beside hers, hand on her thigh. She pretended not to notice, in the way people did when trying not to dissuade but also not draw attention to the fact, encouraging him in the most passive way she could imagine. Anything less would land her in so much more trouble, which she probably wouldn't be able to handle.

Finally, after too many false laughs, empty compliments, and covert, mock-affectionate touches, Natasha had to excuse herself. She had played nice and stayed in place for hours. She could properly justify a trip to the bathroom.

The door had barely closed behind her (and blocked her from the Landlord's eyes) before she ran into the nearest stall and vomited into the toilet. Natasha could hear the sickeningly upbeat sound of the lounge, the distant babble of people outside, and a few giggled comments about _**someone** having too much to drink..._, but nothing managed to drown out the sound of herself being sick. Listening to it almost made her gag yet again, but she managed to keep herself in check.

Natasha kept herself hunched over the toilet bowl, though, because staying there on the disgusting floor was so much better than going back out there and being rewarded for being afraid.

She used to long for this (being in the club, not being sick). She would wait around, listless and withdrawn, until the Landlord came. She had been curled up in the palm of his hand before she had even known him, had known that he was just a monster in a suit. Now she knew what he was, but she was still in his palm. When he said hop, she hopped, not matter how reluctantly, not matter how much she hated him. And when she tried to deviate in the slightest, he came down with a bolt of lightning that she could never avoid.

Natasha closed her eyes, staying there for as long as she could tolerate the smell of vomit and toilet cleaner. Then she stood up, brushed dust off the tiny shred of fabric that was her skirt, and took herself to the sink. She studiously avoided the mirror as she rinsed out her mouth and returned to the lounge.

**she is drunk and careless when she gets back.**

When she stumbled into her hallway a while later, she was a strange mix of miserable and relieved. She had made it back into the Landlord's good books. She could walk around the boarding house with a slightly smaller amount of fear in her stomach, and knew that it would be a little while before the Landlord decided to reassert his dominance over her.

The worst part about being treated by him was that it was all a test. If she hadn't seemed desperate and repentant enough, then she would had failed and assured herself an even worse punishment than before. And yet, the piteous and attention-starved way she had acted just a few hours ago couldn't be faked. Natasha may have resented every second of it, but she hadn't been lying when she curled up against his chest for comfort in the lounge, or when she had taken hold of his face and said she _needed_ him.

Natasha paused in front of her doorway, then looked back. Someone had been peeking at her from their own room.

"What is it?" she asked, and wondered if the person could hear how broken she was.

"I just...I was waiting for you to come back," the girl whispered. Natasha blinked when she realized it really _was_ a girl, the youth apparent in her voice despite how low it was. It was Gracia, the little girl that Natasha had spared from the Landlord weeks ago.

"And why's that?"

"Alexandria tried to go into your room."

Natasha straightened, anger pricking in her stomach at such a blatant attempt at invading her privacy.

"I stopped her, though," Gracia continued, sounding a little proud of herself. "I told her that I'd scream until someone came."

"And what did she say?" There was no way someone as vicious as Alexandria would let a child stop her.

"She said that she would slap me, and lock me in a closet. But then I said that Landlord would be angry with her when he found out, and I'd make sure to play it up for him. She ran away at that. Still hit me, though."

Natasha closed her eyes at the indifference in Gracia's voice. She struggled with herself a moment, trying not to let the alcohol make her stupid and say something rash. She turned away from Gracia and opened her door, then glanced back at the girl.

"You want to come in?"

Gracia hesitated for a moment, then scurried across the hall. Natasha smiled, then closed the door.

Gracia glanced around the room a moment, taking in the sparse amount of details provided by the bars of orange street light coming through the blinds. After brief consideration, she settled onto the stool tucked into the vanity.

"Where'd you go? Everyone saw you and the Landlord talking, but no one was close enough to hear anything. Marcus saw you get in the Landlord's car, though," Gracia said, naming one of the few men that lived in the boarding house.

"I went to a lounge," she said stiffly, leaning against the wall to take off her shoes. Gracia watched her, clearly expecting a few more details. It had been a few months since the Landlord had taken a girl out, and she had come back just gushing over the details. Natasha had been too preoccupied with her sticky notes to pay much attention.

"Was it fun? He's never taken me anywhere, yet. I think it's because I'm so young."

 _And because you obey him without needing any sort of punishment that requires an apology,_ Natasha thought grimly, but simply grunted out some sort of consent.

Natasha changed into her night clothes, not really caring that Gracia was in front of her. Naked bodies meant nothing within the boarding house. Their very jobs had stripped all of the importance of bare skin after endless repetitions, plus they had all seen each other naked at some point or another. Natasha still felt a flicker of self consciousness, though. She had a couple bruises from an angry would-be customer on her shoulders (he had slammed her into a car door. She had clawed at his face until he let her go), plus there were still bruises on her calves from when the Landlord had yanked on her leg to make her stop trying to get away.

She told herself that this did not mirror what she had found under Clint's clothes just days before, and almost succeeded in believing herself.

"Why do you think Alexandria tried getting into your room?" Gracia asked. Natasha paused in fumbling with a tank top, then slowly lowered the hem to its proper place.

"I think she was jealous, and looking for something to get me in trouble."

"Like the sticky notes?" Gracia asked. Natasha stared at her, trying to think of what to say. She could have dismissed it with a sniff and a wave, but rebellion was screaming in her belly, demanding that she acknowledge the sticky notes, and shout that yes, _yes_ , the sticky notes were contraband in the boarding house because they were evil, awful little things that showed that she still _felt like a person_ inside, underneath the shame and terror and obedience that the Landlord had ground into her.

Natasha dragged in a breath, trying to reel herself back in, then shrugged.

"Maybe, if she really thought bits of paper were so important." It was the money that Natasha had still kept from the Landlord that made her nervous.

Natasha walked over to her bed and settled in, the piles of blankets and pillows a heavenly soft welcome. Gracia looked at her longingly, until Natasha sighed and waved her over. Again, Gracia darted over, as if Natasha might change her mind if she waited any longer. She settled in beside Natasha, her body sliding towards hers, due to the decline Natasha's weight made.

They were silent for a while, as if both afraid of breaking the spell. Natasha didn't let just anyone come into her room, much less _stay_ there for extended periods of time. The fact that Gracia, of all people, had been allowed in was kind of a marvel. They had certainly observed each other from afar, but aside from Natasha rescuing Gracia from the Landlord, this was nothing to found this privilege on.

"Aren't you cold sleeping in that? Winter's coming," Natasha said eventually, more to keep her mind off things than because she was truly concerned about Gracia's light sleepwear. Natasha didn't wear much more to bed herself, but then, she could afford a mountain of blankets and pillows to bury herself under.

"I'm not cold. Rae got me some nice blankets, so I'm alright."

Natasha pursed her lips, not because she disliked Rae, but because the mention of the girl brought back all of the those thoughts Natasha had been trying to ignore.

Rae had looked at Natasha so differently than Gracia had. Rae looked scared, like Natasha might go berserk and attack her, while Gracia had been cautious but unafraid. When Rae had been within Natasha's reach, she had been tense, not wanting to allow one of her blonde hairs to fall out of place, even though Natasha had been mild and in a good mood (until Rae tried throwing away that damned sticky note). Gracia, however, was sprawled beside her on the bed, polite yet relaxed, even though Natasha was falling apart and reeked of sweat, alcohol, and sorrow.

And for some reason...Natasha couldn't help but think that it was somehow related to Natasha's status with the Landlord. She was still high up, but she was falling, anyone could see that. Back when she'd sat in his lap and peered down at everyone, she really couldn't be touched, couldn't be crossed. Now...now her back was open for use as target practice.

"Rae's a good girl," Natasha sighed, grabbing a blanket and tossing it over the two of them without opening her eyes.

"Mm-hm," Gracia mumbled, sounding half asleep.

Natasha was half asleep when she found herself mumbling something to Gracia.

"I didn't have fun tonight. You asked...and I didn't have fun."

Gracia didn't respond, so she was probably asleep, and Natasha wasn't really conscious enough to be able to tell if the little girl had squeezed her hand or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Gracia. She poses a fabulous challenge to write, because even though she's in such an atrocious environment, she's still really innocent. Having her talk things is fascinating, because I've got to really think about what strikes her as normal and unpleasant, and what strikes her as bad and unpleasant.
> 
> I liked that I was able to show a bit more of Natasha's background. It's not explicit, like when she was giving Clint a haircut, but I find it to be very telling of what she's gone through, and what life was like for her right after her grandparents died.


	9. ring out, don't let him die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this chapter because it's really emphasizing all of Natasha development as a character. It's finally coming to a head, and I just love that.

"No Light, No Light"

You want a revelation,  
You wanna get it right  
But it's a conversation,  
I just can't have tonight  
You want a revelation  
Some kind of resolution  
You want a revelation

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes  
I never knew daylight could be so violent  
A revelation in the light of day,  
You can't choose what stays and what fades away

Would you leave me,  
If I told you what I've done?  
And would you need me,  
If I told you what I've become?  
'Cause it's so easy,  
To say it to a crowd  
But it's so hard, my love,  
To say it to you out loud.

Florence + the Machine

* * *

**once again, he makes it very hard for her to think.**

Natasha tried not to think about Clint. She tried to get along with business, to walk the streets and keep her head down. She wanted to just get her money and not catch any more attention, but that worked just as well as it had last time.

She kept going back to him, going back to the shame and anger in his eyes when he tried to get her to stop asking questions. At first she hadn't been quite certain what to feel about it, torn between the novelty of seeing someone outside of her situation suffer, and the pain of seeing Clint be that someone. Now she just felt sickened by it all, by her reaction, by his denial, by the thought of some unknown terrible force making Clint _hurt_.

That was probably the worst bit. Natasha had days and days and _days_ to think and wonder and theorize, but in the end, she didn't know the truth. Clint had kept that from her, and that was the worst kind of suffering she had even been through.

If she had known, at least, she might have been able to reconcile herself with it, since she most likely couldn't whip up some sort of plan. But instead, she was left to fret.

To her immense surprise, Clint called for Natasha less than two weeks later. She had figured that he would ignore her, in favor of some girl that wasn't so curious. She supposed that it was either habit or a desire to let as few people know as possible, but she didn't care. She got to see him, got to see how he was doing.

He was doing bad.

When he opened the door for her, he was as polite as ever. He had that same look in his eyes from last time, though, the flat exhaustion that sleep couldn't cure, and she knew what was coming next.

He wasn't wild like last time. He didn't claw and demand and try to wash away the pain. Natasha wasn't a distraction, she was a creature comfort, something he desperately enjoyed having. Thankfully, Natasha had just enough sense to feel the creep of dread when she realized how little that bothered her, but it wasn't much.

Clint sat down on the bed, and pulled her onto his lap. She complied, draping her arms around his neck. Natasha did not miss the way he flinched when he raised his hand to run his fingers through her hair. She did not miss it, but she also did not comment.

She did not comment on the way each movement was careful and slow, did not pay overt attention to how his breath caught when she straddled his waist, and her thighs pressed into his sides. She had a job to do, and she would do it, even if it made her want to cry.

Natasha couldn't help but hesitate when she undid his shirt, and yet again found bruises. They were right on top of the old ones, which had turned into a surly jumble of yellows, greens, and faded browns. The new ones were dark and angry, smears of red and purple on his skin. Whatever problems he was having, they had not gone away.

Clint's eyes were on her as she scanned his chest. She resisted the urge to look at him until she had schooled her expression, but she could imagine the look on his face. It was dispassionate and vaguely curious, a man trying to be disinterested as he sprawled out on a cheap motel bed with a prostitute on her hands and knees above him.

Natasha looked into his face, then carefully lowered herself so that she brushed her lips against the skin over his heart. He reached out and took hold of her leg, pulling her closer.

She closed her eyes, and tried to tell herself that this was _very_ different from the way the Landlord had grabbed her and whispered that she had brought all of this pain upon herself. She took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

**he lies almost every time she asks, and she asks five sticky notes worth. each time, more bruises.**

"I hope you're not hesitating on my account," Clint croaked, and she opened her eyes. He had that same awful, flat expression on his face. She smiled and ran her thumb along his cheek.

"Of course not. Just want to make sure I'm my best for you."

She kissed him, wishing she could ease away his hurt.

When they were curled up in bed together, she couldn't help herself.

"What are the bruises from?"

He had his eyes closed, and she was almost half convinced he was asleep, but then he murmured, "I tripped over a power cord."

In a different situation, Natasha supposed that his easy, almost blase manner would have been amusing. Now it just hurt.

Every time he called for her, she asked, and every time she asked, he lied. They did this for four sticky notes' worth. Then, finally, when he wasn't able to do anything more than sit in bed with her on his lap because moving hurt too much, he gave her the truth.

"A loan shark," he muttered into her hair, the words sounding like the wicked child of a confession and a sob. "They're from a loan shark."

**she asks why.**

Natasha didn't pull away and stare into his face like she wanted to. She could hear the truth in his voice, plain enough. But she couldn't understand _why_. She knew about loan sharks, and she knew that Clint had enough money not to need one. So why was he being harassed by one?

She thought for a moment, continuing to hold him to her as she ran her fingers through his hair. She could ask. He had given her the honor of telling her the truth after all this time, so she could press things a little further.

"Why?"

Clint laughed, a short, hopeless little thing (she wasn't sure if it was short because he wasn't amused, or if it hurt too much to laugh), and then he sighed.

"He didn't like me getting a cat out of a tree."

Natasha closed her eyes. She knew she had to be patient, but dammit, being patient _hurt._ She wanted those facts almost more than she could bear, but Clint had given this much of his own accord. He would give her the rest in time.

...But that didn't mean she couldn't speed up the process a little.

"That's a shame," she murmured, tilting his head up so she could place the words right on his lips. Clint didn't resist, content to just let her ease away some of his pain.

She teased him like she had before, her lips hovering just above his. She could almost taste his smile, she was so close.

"Are you just gonna toy around, or what?"

"That depends on you," she whispered. Clint leaned up and kissed the side of her mouth in way of invitation.

Natasha delicately undid enough buttons on his shirt to pull it off, then grabbed hold to pull it over his head. Clint leaned forward to offer some space between his back and the headboard. His breath caught as he rekindled some of the injuries on his torso, and slowly, slowly lowered himself back once she had his shirt off. Natasha didn't say a word.

Instead, she leaned down to kiss his neck, soft and slow. It was a promise to soothe all aches imaginable, and he seemed more than a little tempted by it.

**he finally lets slip the shark's name.**

"We never talk anymore," she said, cleanly ignoring the fact that they never talked because their last few interactions was marred by severe physical and emotional suffering on Clint's behalf. And kind of her own, but she wasn't the object here.

"No, I guess we don't," he mumbled, sounding exhausted. He pressed his hand against the small of her back, the heat of his palm seeping in through her skin and finding its way to her very fingertips. "What do you wanna talk about?"

"Whatever you want."

Clint was silent for a while, allowing her to kiss him and allowing himself to forget. After a while, he asked, "Why...why do you keep asking? Why do you want to know?"

She pulled her lips away from his ear just enough to whisper, " _Idle curiosity._ "

Clint didn't say anything for a long time after that. Natasha figured it was pretty much the end of their conversation by that point, but he surprised her.

She was pressed up against him, feeling each time he breathed and flinched from pain and sighed from exhaustion. She had her eyes closed, trying to hide from the sharp little boy blue eyes that had turned far too grown up for her liking, which probably made it look like she was asleep. Natasha guessed that was why he told her the loan shark's name.

"Ian Haulders," he whispered, his breath barely even stirring her hair. "His name is Ian Haulders, and I...I have no idea why I got involved."

She didn't move, didn't betray his confidence in any way. But she didn't ignore his words, either.

**she finds the shark.**

Natasha didn't know the name _Ian Haulders,_ but she knew someone who would. A girl named Monique lived on the other side of the boarding house on the bottom floor. She knew everything about the customers serviced by the Landlord's girls. She had been around a little longer than Natasha, but every time someone got a regular or a notable customer, Monique found out. Natasha had no idea how the girl kept track of them, but she always seemed to remember who was who. If any of the boarding house girls had been bought by this Haulders, then Monique would know.

Monique looked thoroughly unsurprised when she saw Natasha rap quietly on her open door. But then, that might have been because Monique never looked very impressed with anything (it may also have been because she took particular pleasure in being strung out for much of her conscious moments, and many of her unconscious ones as well). She just raised an eyebrow and gave a lazy wave from her bed before drawling, " _Come in,_ then."

Natasha stepped inside, and folded her arms. She couldn't seem nervous for any reason. She was ice, she was unshakeable, she was there for work reasons, not for selfish, desperate ones.

"Well, what do you want?"

"I was wondering if anyone had serviced a man called 'Ian Haulders' before," she said, jumping straight to it. Monique considered her a moment, then gave a slow laugh.

"Mm, why's that? Looking to cut into another girl's business?"

"The exact opposite. I don't want to start anything if he belongs to someone else."

" _Okay,_ Russian girl." Monique shifted on her bed, which was eerily similar to Natasha's. It was piled high with pillows and blankets, enough to prop Monique almost upright. Natasha tore her attention away from the bed, and focused on the woman. She may have been exceptionally stoned, but she never forgot a thing. Whatever Natasha allowed her to see would be something that Monique remembered until the day she died.

"Ian Haulders. A few girls have been picked up by him. He never calls, never gets the same girl twice. At least, not on purpose."

Natasha gave a slight nod. So he was the kind that never remembered the face of the whores he used. Natasha's immense dislike for him deepened.

"He's from the city. That's where all of the girls meet him."

"Thanks. He's tried picking me up a couple of times, and I wanted to know if I was allowed to go for something serious. But it seems like it would really be a waste of time."

"It seems," Monique agreed, a coy smile on her face. Natasha started walking out of her room, trying to ignore the way Monique's gaze followed her.

**and makes him a deal.**

It wasn't hard finding out much more about Haulders after that. A few questions there, a bit of prying there, and she discovered where he lived, and even what he vaguely looked like. After that, it was just a matter of paying attention.

Natasha didn't really _realize_ that what she was doing all amounted to some subconscious plan. Pushing Clint for a name, asking Monique about him, and then putting a name to a location, and a location to a face, it had all been following some perverse curiosity. How many times had she asked for details about the punishments the Landlord dealt out to other girls, not because the girl truly wanted to discuss it and free herself of the burden, but because an atrocious part of her reveled in people that were not her suffering. For the longest time, Natasha was convinced that her chasing these ends was just her filling in a grotesquely satisfying picture that she would put down and forget about once it was complete.

But then she was standing in front of his door, and she realized she wasn't casually looking for those missing puzzle pieces. She was actively pursuing a means to an end.

The part of Natasha that hadn't completely shut down reflected that never, in all the days she had lived, would Natasha have said she was getting involved. At least, not until she was knocking on Ian Haulders' door at ten at night, firm and ready to make things happen.

She held her breath, listening to someone on the other side stand up and walk towards the door. She pulled out her cold, unimpressed, and bored look, and waited for the door to open.

Ian Haulders didn't look like a terrible man. He didn't look like the kind of person that stole people's money on the pretense of giving them a hand. He didn't look like the kind of person to see call girls as forgettable bits of nothing. He didn't look like the kind of person that would viciously beat Clint and leave her to stare hopelessly at the pieces.

"Hello?" he said, already on the verge of scowling at her.

"Ian Haulders?"

"Yes. Who're you? Do you damn well realize it's past ten?"

"I do. This is a business matter."

"The hell I do. This isn't a charity, I didn't call a hooker, and no one likes me enough to do it for me."

Natasha ignored the flare of irritation and shame at having been identified _so easily._ She wasn't there to boost her pride, she was there to...

Well, she wasn't really sure _what_ she was there to do.

"Mr. Haulders. Please, allow me to step inside before I make a scene. I want this to be as...streamlined as possible."

" _Excuse_ me?"

Natasha gave him a look, and he set his jaw. He was about to become _very_ difficult, rather than vaguely annoying.

"This is about Clint Barton."

He raised an eyebrow, then broke into an awful smile.

"Oh? He call you to, what, pay me off? Listen to me," he snarled, reaching out and grabbing her shoulder. Natasha's stomach seized as he snarled at her, face just a breath away from hers.

"Listen here, you damn little slut, I'm not someone that can just be _gotten rid of,_ especially not after a night with some cheap whore. Clint Barton can either pay what he owes me, or I swear I will send you back to that little shit with your face looking like a Picasso."

Natasha gave herself a second, then pursed her lips. She gave a slow, lazy blink, because she had faced monsters before, and he was no monster. He was a bully, a coward, a man that ducked and dived when he needed to, but then took the opportunity to stab people in the stomachs once they laid down to rest. He was nothing than a rude brute, and she wasn't scared by him.

"Are you finished?" she asked, and her voice sounded like granite. "Because I would like to have done with this before tomorrow."

Haulders seemed to deflate in the face of her ambivalence, then spat, "What the hell do you want?"

"Can I come in?" she asked in a voice that took the choice out of his hands. He shrugged and acted like she wasn't kicking his ego and his threats to pieces, then stalked back into his apartment.

Natasha followed, closing the door behind her.

"Now, will you tell me why you're here?"

"I have an offer. Or a threat, but that depends on you."

"You think you can threaten me?" he scoffed, and she shrugged. Natasha surveyed his apartment. It was expensive, but it was clinical. Cold, utilitarian, all hard edges and pretension. This was not where someone lived. This was where they showed off.

"Clint Barton," she began, looking back at him. Maybe, if she said it fast enough and hard enough and cold enough, she wouldn't come to her senses and run away. Maybe he might also believe her.

"What about him?"

"Forgive his debts, whatever they are. No more payments, no more beatings. You absolve him of everything."

"I'm not even going to warrant that a bit of consideration. What could you _possibly have_ that would make me consider? As far as I'm concerned, you're just some dumb bitch some idiot asked to get me off his ass."

"Control yourself," Natasha said, not even deigning to snarl at him. "I am on the verge of making your life _very_ miserable. If I were you, I would listen before I started insulting me."

"What's your offer," he sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Then I will make sure that every organized prostitute in the city will refuse you service. Sure, you could go out and buy whatever _real '_ cheap slut' you can find, some teenager or crack addict that need a few extra bucks. Or you could ship someone in, but I can only imagine the sort of money _that_ would cost. In terms of money alone, would it be worth riding Barton until you got every last penny out of him?"

"You _really_ think you could turn _every_ whore in New York City against me?" Haulders laughed. He leaned against the lethal looking counter, fairly unimpressed.

"Do you really think I would come here with hollow threats?"

Natasha wasn't lying. She _could_ turn a large number of the higher end prostitutes against Haulders. Say the right things in the right ears, and then borderline miracles could happen. The only question would be how long until the Landlord would make her suffer, and then how much.

Natasha wondered when she had reached the point where she would defy the devil for Clint.

Haulders shifted, then shrugged.

"That's it? I forgive Barton of what he owes me, and then I get all of the paid sex I want?"

"Unless you want to start relying on your charm to get laid. Or if you want to buy yourself a vapid, greedy girlfriend to entertain yourself. But you don't look like the attachment sort of guy."

"And...you think I am _that_ much of an addict? That I gotta get laid so often that I can't handle going without a few prostitutes?"

" _Please,_ " she scoffed, looking him up and down, "You act so mighty, but those 'dumb bitches and sluts' that you don't care about? They happen to have ears, and you happen to not have a brain when they get your clothes off and you happen to get a business call. The things that could be told are innumerable. _"_

Haulders finally seemed to be listening.

"You mean, they heard—"

"Yes. Every skeleton to be buried, every deal to be ripped off. One word from me, and you'll have the jackals at your heels." Now, this _was_ a bluff. There was no way Natasha could find all of the girls that had ever slept with him and heard all of his secrets, but clearly she had him going, and she would be damned if she let that slip.

He shifted, chewing on his cheek.

"Where did Barton find _you,_ " he asked after a moment, shaking his head. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

"He didn't send me. He doesn't know."

"Oh?" Haulders asked, a light showing up in his eyes.

"No. And he never will know about _me_ , unless you want the jackals to know about _you._ "

There were a few more moments of Haulders glowering at her, then he broke.

" _Fine!_ Fine! He's free to go. Cheap bastard never paid me anyways," Haulders grumbled, stalking over to the liquor cabinet. Natasha watched him, then took off her coat. It took Haulders a moment, but then he turned to look at her.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Consider it an advance," Natasha said. "An act of good will."

"Excuse me? How is that?"

"I come free," she said, and his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Natasha told herself not to be sick. This was for a good cause. Plus she'd been touched by worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing that I find fascinating is that even though Natasha dislikes and mocks the idea that sex is a cure all, she readily uses it here. One, because that's all she has, and two, because she knows it can be a very powerful incentive. Even though I have this all planned out, and know how it's going to go, more or less from beginning to end, I love watching it all unfold. It's the little nuances, like seeing Natasha wake up to what's around her, and realize her own power that make writing a treat.


	10. give me the boy with the licorice tongue

"Ready"

Oh, I'm ready,  
Oh, I'm ready.  
I'm ready for my number to be drawn,  
And I'm ready for my love to  
Come along.

He's taking his time,  
He's taking all of mine  
So I'll sing 'Sha la la,  
Sha la la la la  
Sha la la la la'.

Love can be heavy,  
But I'll keep holding on.  
'Cause I've hand my eye on  
A fast one whose  
Motor don't start and  
Engine don't run.  
I've been waiting, heart disintegrating,  
Give me the boy with the licorice tongue.

Julia Haltigan

* * *

**the next time she sees him, no new bruises.**

Natasha managed to pretend she was not nervous as the next few days went by, as she walked on the street and she tended to her other regulars (she wasn't sure if it was her, the Landlord, or just fate, but several of her regulars had begun falling away. Natasha tried very hard not to let this be a sign). But she was waiting, waiting, _praying_ that her rash decision had paid off, that Haulders had done as she had demanded.

But then finally, Clint called. She wanted to run to him, but she made herself saunter. Natasha walked up to his door with a lazy expression, lethal heels, and her warm red coat. They were they only form of armor she had, and she had a feeling that she would be needing them.

She held her breath when he opened the door, terrified for a moment that Haulders would have spited her, and had Clint beaten worse than usual. When she saw his smile, she let herself exhale. Haulders had kept his part of the deal.

He had kept his part of the deal, but Natasha couldn't help but feel weighed down by the secret on her tongue. She managed to ignore it for the first little while, when Clint again began their small ritual of making small talk. Natasha felt relieved that Clint had the energy for it, but everything felt muted after what she had done. For some reason, she felt _guilt_ over her decision, like maybe she should have done something different, which made no sense. She was perfectly justified. She had done it to save Clint. There was no reason for her to feel so sick.

**she holds her secret like a fire in her chest.**

Clint noticed that something was off with her. His eyes were a little bluer and a whole lot brighter than last time, which meant he completely saw through Natasha's weak facade. He kept giving her this strange, analytical look, which she would pointedly ignore. At one point, he even broke off what he was saying to ask, "Natasha, are you alright?"

She looked down at him, somehow having expected this.

"What, oh, yes. I'm fine."

He narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He nodded, but it was obvious he didn't believe her. Still, he let it lie for a few minutes, and took some pleasure in kissing her and wrapping his fingers up in her hair. Clearly it was still eating at him, though, as he paused a bit later and asked, "Is there something wrong?"

His lips were almost on hers, teasing her just like she had done to him so many times. The words settled on her mouth, tugging at her, demanding that her own words tumble forth.

"No, _nothing_ is wrong."

Natasha shifted, not quite uncomfortable beneath his gaze, because he had looked through her to her soul so many times, but it was a little strange to be the object of his attention. Not because she was demanding it via flirting or whatever other little tricks, but because...he was just interested.

"Okay."

He sat back in his chair, and folded his arms. Natasha blinked at him, a little confused.

"O...kay?"

"Okay," he repeated, and shrugged. "Nothing's wrong."

She waited a moment, but he just watched her, expression almost serene. Natasha leaned over so that she was practically laying on him in the chair, brushing the tip of her fingers along his jaw.

"Does something have to be wrong?"

"No, it doesn't."

Still, Clint didn't touch her like he had before. They just sat there, talking, passing time. The longer they went, the more Natasha felt that she was going to spring up and rip her hair out, because she couldn't do this again. Last time, she could understand, because his fiancee had left him, and his whole world seemed to be coming down, but now...now he was just _testing_ her, _torturing_ her, trying to get the truth past her lips.

It made Natasha want to spit. Her idiot moment of confidence in Manhattan had given him the perfect ammo. He knew that if he did nothing, she would try all that she could to get him to do something. He probably didn't understand why, though. After her little outburst, it was entirely possible that he thought she hated not being used out of a matter of pride, and not out of a matter fear of her safety.

After a while, Clint politely asked her to get off his lap. She complied, trying not to look a little sulky as he stood up. Natasha watched him undress and get into bed, stomach trying itself into surly knots.

"You coming?" he asked, looking at her from the bed.

"Of course," Natasha said, feeling exceptionally impressed that she didn't sound as put out as she felt. She took a moment to undress herself just as Clint had, tossing her clothes aside as if she didn't care about them (which she didn't). She walked to the other side of the bed, then slipped in under the covers beside Clint.

Natasha wondered if this would be the point when he set aside his damn games and finally kissed her the way he had wanted to all night.  
As if hearing her thoughts, Clint wrapped his arms around her, and pulled Natasha close. She pressed into him, waiting, waiting.

Nothing happened.

She rolled her eyes, and chewed her cheek. She wanted to play along. She wanted to pretend, to wait him out until he couldn't stand buying her and not touching her. Natasha wanted to close her eyes and drift asleep against Clint's chest, but she knew she would never get it. Not with a secret pawing at her lips on one side, and Clint prying at the other.

Clint wound his legs in between hers, toes brushing against each other. Natasha turned into him, and tried not to feel guilty at loving the way he smelled. Everything felt so wrong, everything had fallen apart. At some point, one of them had broken the rules so irreparably that they had ended up there, hiding and feeling far more than they ever had a right to.

Natasha closed her eyes.

The last time he had asked her a question, he had offered to pay her for her answers. Now...he was letting her keep it all to herself. She really didn't know which was worse.

**then he finally breaks, and it is a cool relief.**

It took some time (two sticky notes, five weeks, an innumerable amount of drive by customers, and a handful of regulars, to be exact), but Clint finally gave in. When Natasha heard the Landlord's lazy drawl that _you got a call from Barton, darlin',_ her stomach clenched and she nearly turned right around and closed herself into the bathroom, but she smiled because she she couldn't afford to do anything else. The words ' _of course_ ' came out of her lips, and already she was off, imaging yet another torturous night of nothing.

But that wasn't the case.

When Natasha knocked on Clint's motel room door, shivering in her coat due to the rain, Clint opened it as usual. Except he wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Am I interrupting something?" Natasha asked, unable to help herself. Clint laughed and nodded for her to come inside. She stepped in, taking the time to examine his bare skin. She found herself doing this each time, checking for new bruises, checking for some sign of double crossing on Haulders' part. It was partly out of anxiety for Clint's well being, but also anxiety as to what she could do about it.

Clint turned back to face her, taking her newly shed coat.

"Hell, it's cold out there. But no, I was just gonna hop in the shower. You wanna join me?"

Natasha gave him a smile. She loved the way he phrased it. _You wanna join me_. He was in all honesty offering her a choice, even if it was one that he couldn't truly provide.

"I think I will."

"Great."

Natasha moved towards the bathroom, then paused when Clint's cell phone rang. She turned back to him, look questioning as he checked the caller ID.

"You go on, I gotta take this. It'll only be a sec." Clint opened his phone as he talked, and moved off towards the relative seclusion of the tiny kitchenette. Natasha continued on to the bathroom, but she had to force herself not to look back. Clint's conversations weren't her business, hell, his _life_ wasn't her business, so she had no right in worrying over him.

Natasha stepped into the bathroom, then closed the door halfway behind her. Privacy was an illusion, but it was one that she occasionally liked indulging in.

The bathroom was small, with little room for her feet once she had pulled off her dress and shoes. She examined her makeup in the mirror, and quickly wiped off as much as possible. Her mascara promised that it was water proof, and her eye shadow was generally light enough to escape any horrendous streaks, but she didn't like taking chances.

She picked up her clothes and tossed them onto the tank of the toilet. Natasha turned around absently, uncertain if Clint expected her to actually get in the shower without him. As she turned, her eyes fell on the mirror. Natasha knew she wouldn't like what she saw, but she looked anyways.

Her hair was getting long, hanging in limp waves past her shoulders. She looked tired, especially with smudges of misplaced makeup emphasizing the shadows under her eyes. Plus she looked a bit peaky, and not just because of the bleached lighting. Natasha hadn't really had time for food that day, what with a late start to her morning because of another customer, having to sort out a fight on her floor at the boarding house, and catching up on all of the daily errands she had let stack up over the last week.

If she was _really_ being honest, though, the last two weeks hadn't been so great for eating, what with a hectic schedule and the Landlord breathing down her neck for her every last penny.

Natasha looked away from her reflection. She had seen enough. The red headed ghost wearing black underwear that was more expensive than she was clearly wasn't going anywhere soon.

Clint walked into the bathroom, looking just as comfortable as before. So the phone call hadn't been anything to worry about.

She gave him a smile, and he graciously ignored the miserable exhaustion in her features. Clint gestured towards the shower in a _ladies first_ kind of way. Then he noticed that she was still wearing her underwear, and cocked an eyebrow that asked ' _All ready?_ ' Natasha allowed her smile to turn a little devious as she crossed the small space and slipped in past the curtain. For all his bravado, Natasha knew Clint liked the journey almost more than the prize.

It only took a second for Clint to finish stripping down, but then he was in beside her, adjusting the temperature of the water. Steam still billowed around them, and it seemed determined to coat everything inside Natasha, from her throat to her bones. She liked the clean feeling.

"Water warm enough for you?" he asked, barely a hand's breadth away from her. She nodded.

"It's fine."

"That's good," Clint mumbled, leaning in to kiss her. Their breaths were caught up in each other, turned thick with the steam. Clint kissed her again and again, practically demanding a response from her.

There was an almost _twisted_ sort of satisfaction in Natasha's stomach as his lips moved from her mouth to her neck. Satisfied, because she had been right. Twisted, because she wasn't sure she liked the idea that she had made him suffer. He had craved this for every second he had played his games and kept his gentlemanly distance from her, craved it with an intensity that was now stunningly apparent. His kisses were harsh and lovely, like a pungent piece of candy. Some part of her recognized that this was not the honey she was used to experiencing with him, that this was more like Clint delicately shoving a piece of licorice onto her tongue, but the taste was too consuming for her to give up.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, ran her fingers through his hair, and tried not to think about how lightheaded she was feeling. Clint had his hands on her hips, but then they were sliding their way up her back towards her bra. He was kissing her collar bone now, the water from the shower dripping down his hair and splashing on her over his shoulder and making Natasha catch her breath. The water, Clint's hands, and his breath all competed for the hottest thing on her skin, contrasting starkly with the cold air from outside somehow bleeding into the shower snaking up her side.

Natasha felt her breath speed up as she leaned into the wall of the shower, trying to support herself against Clint. She kissed his throat as he undid her bra, casting it thoughtlessly aside. His hands pressed into her shoulder blades, bleeding warmth into her, warmth that she felt she had coveted all her life. She pressed into him, not caring that water was splashing all over their faces as they kissed each other, not caring that he had given up caring about the truth. Natasha was _finally_ getting what she wanted. Clint was allowing them to once again be in a normal situation, where he called her and they had sex and then she could leave.

She noticed her hands shaking when she tried to pull on his hair. She couldn't quite get a firm enough grip, but she dismissed that as something to do with the water making his hair slick. When her fingers practically rattled against his skin as she tried to slide them down his back, she told herself to get over it, because this was not the time to start reacting like an amateur. When her knees gave way, Natasha knew things were probably a little bit more serious than she wanted to admit.

To her credit, she did a beautiful job of trying to cover herself. She took barely a second of bracing herself against the wall and Clint's hip as she tried to get the world to unblack itself and come into focus, then she looked up at Clint with a mischievous smile that said _please please please don't comment act like everything is fine just let me do this._

He did not just let her do it.

"Natasha?" he asked, and it was very clear he saw through her ruse and was now on the edge of panic. "Natasha, _hey_ , are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, and she was fairly sure that past the sound of her heart screaming in her ears, she heard herself laugh. Clint was not impressed. But that might have been because she was relying heavily on the wall to keep her upright, rather than her acting.

He took hold of her hand and tried to pull her up. Natasha bit her cheek, and looked away. She wasn't entirely sure she could stand up.

Clint didn't move for a moment, and she wondered if this was the part where he sent her home, or demanded a discount, or began being barbaric in some other terrible way. She closed her eyes, suddenly so ashamed and _angry_ with herself that she could hardly think. Natasha didn't even know _why_ she was so upset, she just was and she couldn't get up because she had no strength and she couldn't snap at Clint because he had done nothing wrong and she couldn't stand being angry at him and she couldn't fake her way through it because she was a half starved prostitute, sitting largely naked in some cheap motel bathroom while her client stood over her, confused and panicked.

Clint crouched down beside her. With him out of the way, the water was free to hit her directly on the head, causing it to stream down her face. She shook her head instinctively and wiped the water away before turning to face the wall. Natasha could feel Clint watching her, bright blue eyes taking in everything.

"Can you stand?" he asked. His voice was soft as he spoke, completely free of judgment. She turned just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye and chewed her lip.

"I...don't know. Not without help."

He nodded, looking down somewhere between their knees.

"When did you eat last?"

"Not long before I came here."

He gave her a look.

" _What_ did you eat last?"

"An apple."

"And before that?"

"...A muffin. For breakfast."

Natasha closed her eyes when he hissed out a sigh, and she suddenly found herself stiffening, pulling back in on herself, trying to become smaller. Not that it would do her much good, with him literally _right there_ in front of her.

Clint sighed again, though this time it wasn't so much a frustrated sigh as a resigned one. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to the soft tone from earlier.

"We're going to get out of the shower now, okay?" She nodded, not caring that he was talking to her like she was a toddler, and not caring that she was responding like one.

**he helps her dry off, helps her get her feet under her.**

Clint settled one hand on her elbow and the other on her waist, and slowly guided her until she was upright. She flinched from the cold when he pulled back the curtain, and he froze for a moment, worried that she might collapse again.

He got the two of them out of the shower, and grabbed a towel for Natasha. She wrapped it around herself, unable to keep from shaking as she watched him grab another. He dried off her arm and shoulders, and even had a handful of her hair in the towel before seeming to think about it. Clint paused, then let her hair go. He settled the towel around her shoulders, hands resting on her shoulders for a moment. His eyes were pouring into hers, searching intently for _something_. Natasha looked back at him, trying to hide at least a bit of herself from his gaze, but at this point, she wasn't really sure what there was left to hide.

Clint turned away and shut off the water, then grabbed a towel for himself.

"You should...you should go dry off," he said, voice sounding so, so tired. Natasha nodded, then stumbled out of the bathroom.

The main room was dark as she carefully toweled off by the table. She finished in a couple of moments, but wrapped the towel back around herself. Everything felt suddenly freezing, now that she was out of the grasp of Clint and the hot water.

Clint came out of the bathroom, once again wearing pants. She wanted to avoid his eye, but she couldn't help but look at him, couldn't help but search for what would happen next in his face.

"If you wanna get out of those, we can probably get them dry before morning."

She jumped at his words, then glanced down at her underwear. Natasha gave an uncertain nod, and pulled off her last trace of clothing.

To Clint's ever increasing credit, he didn't linger. He didn't watch her like she was a freak show, like she was too pathetic to tear his eyes from. He moved on to rustling around the kitchen, giving her plenty of time to rewrap herself in the towel, and place her underwear with the rest of her clothes.

When she came back, he had food on the table. She glanced over the take out containers of once ornately placed rice, noodles, vegetables, and meat, then looked at Clint. He wasn't looking at her, but was instead searching a bag on the table for something. Natasha sat at the table, but didn't speak.

"All I've got is some left over Thai, but it should do. Here," he said, offering her a fork. Natasha took it, then looked back at the food.

They didn't say much for the rest of the night. Natasha continued staring at the take out container until Clint broke the tension by popping a piece of chicken into his mouth. She hesitated a moment longer, then sank her fork in. In between bites, she looked at Clint. His expression was mild, though tired. And something else. There was something there that she couldn't quite understand, and she was too tired to try.

At one point, Clint got up from the table. Natasha watched him for a moment, eyes dull, then returned to her task. When he came back, he set down a cup of water before her, saying, "This might help it go down easier."

She grunted out a thank you, and took a drink from the cup. The water tasted tinny and diluted the flavor of the food, but she was still glad for it.

With Clint's occasional help, Natasha finished off the rest of the Thai. It was slow going, as she had the feeling that the sick sensation in her stomach wasn't just from embarrassment. As it was, her small dinner was weighing down her stomach, pushing at her insides.

 _Typical. When I finally **do** eat, it makes me wish I hadn't,_ she thought, forcing herself to sip the water.

When she set down her fork, Clint nodded at her.

"I'll clean up."

She nodded at him, hearing his silent message. _You go lay down._ She was frankly too tired to care about the implications.

Natasha pushed herself up from the table, and made a quick stop in the bathroom. She rinsed her face, trying to wash some of the shame and the smell of Asian food off of her skin. She used the towel wrapped around her to dry her face, then hung it up. She did not look in the mirror again.

Clint was still taking care of the remnants of their meal when Natasha climbed into the bed. She closed her eyes and let her body just settle into the mattress and pillows.

It was very, very hard not to think.

**he doesn't touch her. this time, it is perfect and wonderful and just right.**

A few moments later, Natasha heard Clint walk towards the bed. There was the all too familiar rustling of him taking off his clothing, then he got in bed. There was a moment where he stayed still, a sterile swathe of sheet between them, and she wondered if this was it, if this was the moment where she ruined everything and lost the one vaguely enjoyable thing she had in her life.

The moment stretched on, and she resigned herself to this cold, broken, solitary state.

Then Clint rolled over and draped his arm over her side. Nothing more, nothing less. His bare skin was on her bare skin, and he was not asking nor demanding nor paying for more. No sex, no answers, no stories, no secrets.

Natasha was thankful that it was so dark, because she couldn't help a nearly pained expression crossing her face. _This_ felt good, this above everything else. Better than seeing him, better than him giving in and allowing her to earn his money, better than everything.

She just wished that it came without all of the strings that so neatly wrapped up her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER I CAN'T EVEN. UGH CLINT BABY. UGH NATASHA BABY.
> 
> In terms of love, this chapter is on par with the haircut one. It was beautiful and painful and so marvelous to write. I can't express how excited I am right now, though. Things are gathering momentum at a really rapid rate, and I can't wait for you guys to see what I have in store.


	11. lady sings the blues so well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is best described as 'everything was cute and then everything was not'. Ha ha, ha ha ha. You didn't really need those feelings, did you?
> 
> Warnings: an extended scene of fairly undetailed domestic abuse.

"Rabbit Heart"

You made a deal, and now it seems you have to offer up  
But will it ever be enough?  
It's not enough

Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl  
Frozen in the headlights  
It seems I've made the final sacrifice

This is a gift, it comes with a price  
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?  
Midas is king and he holds me so tight  
And turns me to gold in the sunlight  
I wish that I could just be brave.

Florence + The Machine

eventually one of the other girls lets the sticky notes slip. the landlord doesn't like it.

It was getting dark sooner and sooner, the days vanishing almost before they had even begun. Even quick trips into the store felt like she was dragging herself home from work, it was so dark. That thought thoroughly depressed her.

Natasha shouldered her way through the door, trying to shuffle her bags into one hand. There was no one in the lobby of the boarding house, probably because everyone was trying to catch the last few minutes of sleep before they had to go out for the night.

Natasha was seriously considering staying in that night. She was tired, brutally tired, and she had the strange notion of wanting to actually take care of herself. The thought of staying in her room, getting a few hours of decent sleep, maybe eating something that hadn't been frozen months ago and then carelessly reheated the day before, it all sounded wonderful. Maybe if Gracia came around, Natasha might be willing to share some of her good will...

She walked up the stairs, not paying attention to the things around her. There had been plenty of drive bys the night before, as well as a few guys that had harassed her for a while, though thankfully nothing had come of it. Natasha felt herself sinking into a haze as she went up one flight, then another, then another.

She turned down her hallway, fishing for her key in her pocket. She leaned against the doorway, finally producing it. Natasha slipped the key into the lock, and opened the door.

"Natasha!" a voice called, making her look towards the staircase. It was Rae, hurrying down the hall. The girl always looked like she was going to jump out of her skin, these days.

"Na-Natasha, hey," she gasped, apparently having run up the steps.

"What is it?"

"Haven't you-haven't you heard? Of c-course not, you jus-just came from the store." Rae looked more nervous than usual. She was frankly anxious, practically wringing her hands as she tried to get her breath back.

"What's the matter, Rae?" Natasha felt her stomach sink. The haze fell away from her like an over-sized coat as apprehension crept into her stomach. The hall suddenly seemed unnaturally empty now, not just the sleepy sort of abandoned the day normally brought.

"The Landlord. He-he—I swear I didn't tell!"

"Tell what?" she snapped, growing tired of Rae's babbling. Rae looked gloomily over Natasha's shoulder in answer.

She whipped around, stomach dropping away before she had fully turned around.

The vanity had been jerked out of place. The cabinets had been carelessly opened, and the drawers had been flung out. Some of them were even sprawled across the floor, their sparse contents thrown like shrapnel.

The sticky notes were gone. They had all been taken.

Natasha whirled on Rae, unsure if she was going to screech at or vomit on her. The look in her eyes was enough to get Rae talking.

"Someone told him. I don't know who, but...he's going to burn them."

Natasha bolted. She didn't look back as she shoved her way past Rae, dropping her groceries in her doorway and leaving her room wide open. That clever, survival oriented part of her was telling her that it was just paper, that it shouldn't matter, she would probably get more but she just moved faster. Sheer blind panic was taking her over, demanding that she get there in time.

Who had told him? It wasn't a secret that she had the sticky notes, all of the girls talked about it, so she had simply assumed that it had all funneled back to the Landlord. And who had laid the insinuation that they were important, because there was no way the Landlord would bother himself if he didn't think they were a threat. Obviously, it wasn't Rae, the girl didn't seem to even know what an agenda even was. Could it have been Alexandria? Would she have been willing to make such a wild accusation, or had it been Gracia accidentally giving it all away in a brief slip of the tongue?

The questions died away as Natasha sprinted into the back of the building, replaced with a desperate cacophony in her head. She needed those sticky notes, she needed them, she needed them, sheneeded them.

Natasha felt sick as she ran, partly from physical exertion, partly because she couldn't stand the thought of losing those damn sticky notes. The thought of losing them was an actual ache in her bones, regret and anxiety and anger all swirled into one disgusting feeling.

She had thought before that their hold over her was something dangerous and stupid, something that she should have never allowed to exist over her. But what she was feeling now was nothingcompared to anything she might have imagined before.

she catches him before he reaches the burn pile.

Natasha burst through the back door, taking barely a second to register the crowd of onlookers gathered in the empty lot behind the boarding house. In that brief moment, though, she saw beyond them to the Landlord, who was making his way towards a metal trashcan, an ominous black trash bag in hand. The suppressed excitement on the crowd's faces, combined with the flames leaping up from the top of the trashcan was enough to make Natasha want to turn away and vomit, but she forced herself to start running again, trying to catch him before it was too late.

Faces turned towards her as she ran to stop the Landlord. They saw the desperation on her face, the fear, the weakness. They saw her stumble, her ridiculous heels finally giving her grief as she hit a patch of rocks. They saw her school her face as she broke through the crowd, and called out to the Landlord. They saw him not even deign to respond.

Natasha grit her teeth and forced herself the last few yards, and grabbed the Landlord's sleeve. She could just feel the crowd around her take in a breathe. No one was supposed to touch the Landlord if he didn't grant them permission first.

The Landlord looked at her, and it felt like he rammed a spear down her throat.

"Natasha," he said, voice absolutely feral, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I—I—please, don't do this." There was no point in false fronts and fake nonchalance, now. He knew how she felt, and she knew how she felt, and really, her even caring enough to come was the seal on her fate. If she had been the smart little frozen creature from just a few months ago, then she would have carefully nodded at Rae's warning, walked into her room, closed the door, and completely broken apart while no one was there to see it. If she had tucked herself and all signs of her feelings away, she might have avoided any sort of extra unpleasantness, because then the Landlord would have still been able to use her. Now, though, it was painfully clear that she didn't have anything left.

"And why is that?"

"You don't have to," she began, the words stumbling out of her mouth without her really realizing just what she was saying. "You don't have to do this. I've learned my lesson, I understand, I understand! Please, please, just give them back."

She looked up into his cold expression, legs giving way. His snarl turned a little more disgusted as she fell to her knees, completely unimpressed at her groveling.

"Get off of me," he spat, jerking his arm into her chest to throw her off. Natasha nearly lost her grip on his arm, but she held on tight, clinging to him, clinging to the only bit of hope she had left. She was screaming in her head now, raging and pleading for him to just give her the bag, but her words were still deceptively soft. Natasha almost would have said they were calm, if not for the way she was grabbing onto him like this was her last prayer.

"Please," she repeated, almost crying now, because she was angry and upset and scared out of her mind. She didn't even know why she was feeling so much, she just was, she just felt and she cared and she couldn't let those sticky notes burn.

The Landlord moved faster than she thought possible, breaking her grip and grabbing her hair. She gasped as he forced her face up, and lowered his head so that he was almost spitting in her face. She could feel the crowd catch its breath and pull back, knowing that she had gone too far, that their entertainment was about to turn awful. She imagined that she could feel some of them leave, but that may have just been her own desire to have them gone, to not see whatever punishment the Landlord had in store for her.

"You deserve this, Natasha," he hissed, words like granite. "What did I tell ya the last time, huh? I said you were endangering everyone."

He emphasized his words with a rough jerk on her hair, and she gasped again, trying to bite down on the tears and the sound of pain in her throat and failing at both.

"You and these damn little sticky notes, you probably thought they were okay, that they didn't mean nothin'. But you're a smart girl, and if that were true, you woulda never come out here. So that really only leaves me to think that you wanted to put crazy li'l thoughts into everyone's heads, that you wanted to cause problems and make the girls upset. How selfish, Natasha."

He let go of her hair, more shoving her away from him than anything. She scraped her arm on the concrete beneath her as she fell over, but she kept her eyes on him.

"This is all things you've done to yourself," he continued, opening his arms wide to encompass everything from the burning trashcan behind him to her on the ground. "This is what you get for thinkin' you're in some damn saccharine little fairy tale."

Natasha nearly closed her eyes. Her lie was out in the open, the one about not caring and not being attached and being unhappy with the way her life was now. She could almost see it dropping from the air around her, tangible enough for the remnants of the crowd to scoop it up with their hands, if they wanted. But she didn't care. She didn't care that everyone knew she was stockpiling moments that were better than the ones the boarding house gave her. She didn't care that everyone knew that she, the ice queen, was sentimental and desperate and completely out of grace with the Landlord. She just wanted those sticky notes back.

Because yes, all of that was true. She did hate her life and she did long for something better and she did want to indulge in something other than being the Landlord's pet whore, but the sticky notes weren't about spiting her life as it was now. They weren't an act of rebellion against the Landlord and all of his rules.

They were her only real tie to Clint when he wasn't there. They were the only thing she had in case he never came back, because everything else faded once she walked out of his life and back into hers. They were the closest she had to the thing she needed, and she would never let them go.

he smiles and she thinks that maybe, maybe she may have done it.

As Natasha's tears fell to the ground beneath her, the Landlord smiled. It wasn't brutal or venomous like before, but simple and honest. She watched him, nervous for some reason, uncertain as to what was coming next. The Landlord straightened, and for a moment, Natasha allowed herself to think that maybe she had convinced him. Then he dropped the bag of sticky notes and hit her.

And hit her

and hit her

and hit her.

Natasha didn't care that she cried out when he slapped her face, or shoved her backwards into the dirt. Her tears were miserable and unavoidable, dropping from her face to mix with the dirt and concrete. The Landlord was yelling at her, yelling things about how she had done this to herself, about how she was a fanciful idiot, about how she sickened him. Natasha curled up, arms protecting her hand, blocking her ears because she did not want to hear this. She felt sick and hurt and hated herself for getting into the situation, each blow a physical reminder of how much of a wretched human being she was.

She was pathetic. She had been so helpless after her grandparents had died that she had found no option other than prostitution to keep herself alive. She had been so naive, so susceptible to a monster like the Landlord. Admittedly, Natasha had done well for a few years with the Landlord, despite her early beliefs that he actually cared for her, or that he even had a person inside of him. Natasha had shoved her way to the top, more than that, she had stayed there, looking down on everyone else from a position more certain than most. But there she was, unbelievably weak and emotional and graceless because one stupid man had climbed into her heart with a little bit of kindness and a bag of blank, brightly colored paper.

Natasha grit her teeth, actually sobbing now, because as she thought of Clint, one thought tumbled into her head. Here she was, crying and being beaten because she needed to remember him, needed to be able to recall how blue his eyes were, how childish and sweet his smiles were, how gentle his hands, despite the callouses. She needed that like she needed air, and yet...in all likelihood, Natasha probably didn't matter to Clint.

she stops wishing for things as she gets up and goes to pull herself together.

The Landlord rolled Natasha onto her back with his foot. She looked up at him, knowing that she looked utterly terrified, with tears and dirt and a bit of blood mixing together on her face. The Landlord sneered down at her, utter disgust on his face, and seeing that, seeing the absolute lack of humanity hardened something within Natasha. As much as she hated herself for all of the choices she had made and the things she had allowed to eat her alive, she hated the Landlord more.

He set his foot on her sternum, and for a moment, her loathing of him was enough to make her want to throw him off and claw at his face, leaving horrible gashes to show the world that he was twisted and ugly inside. The moment passed as he pushed the tip of his shoe into the underside of her chin, the sole pressing uncomfortably into her throat.

"Don't you ever touch me without permission again," he hissed, and then he was gone. He stalked back into the boarding house, leaving Natasha all alone. She stared up at the cloudy sky, gritting her teeth as the cold wind stabbed at her through her all too thin clothes. She pressed her arm over her eyes, a few more bitter tears making their escape. As always, she had been faced with her own destruction, and she had done nothing.

Small footsteps made their way across the lot, but Natasha didn't look around. They paused by her head, waiting for her to be ready to get up.

Natasha thought about lingering, about moping and feeling sorry for herself. She gingerly got up, though, knowing that she could never make Gracia wait that long.

They didn't say anything as Natasha got to her feet, ignoring the pain that was everywhere. Gracia picked up her bag, which Natasha was thankful for, because she was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to handle bending over. There was some quiet amount of ceremony as the bag was handed over, Gracia's expression strangely solemn, like she understood just how important its contents were. Natasha nodded at her, making her expression completely empty as she looked at the little girl.

They walked back to their floor in silence. Gracia carefully helped Natasha up the stairs, fingers on her arm as a reassurance when people started staring. When they reached the bathroom, Gracia guided Natasha in and locked the door. Natasha sat down on the lid of the toilet, bag still in her fist as she let her carefully constructed mask fall away. Gracia didn't comment as she worked, hands steady as she wiped Natasha's face and cleaned her cuts.

"You don't have to do this," Natasha whispered.

Gracia just gave her a look, flat and unimpressed at her protests. She pulled out a small bag of bandages and placed one carefully on the cut on Natasha's face. Natasha flinched and Gracia froze, then continued at a nod.

"Why did you keep them?" Gracia asked after a while. Her voice was hushed and uncertain. Natasha looked away from her, knowing what she meant. She had been a complete fool, keeping those sticky notes. There was no way it could have ended any other way, if she was really honest with herself.

Natasha opened her mouth, trying to say something like they were important, or they reminded me of him, but that hadn't been her motive to start off. She hadn't cared about keeping hold of some part of Clint when she had taken that first sticky note. Clint hadn't been anything but a source of income and a mild interest for the first little while.

She sighed through her nose, trying to not cry again.

"I don't know," she whispered, "I just...I don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WANT TO PUNCH THROUGH A WALL YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW IMPORTANT THIS CHAPTER IS TO ME. There are so many little things that happen that I adore, not because they actually make me feel nice (I kind of hate myself when I write these awful chapters), but because the developments and realizations Natasha makes are so. important.
> 
> When I look back to how she was in the earlier chapters, I get really proud (shh i know it's silly) because now she's not just resigning herself to it all, not just standing in line for suffering. There is some level of rebellion going on in her head, she knows what's happening is wrong and she needs to change it, but she's not ready to really strike out yet. She's still exceptionally damaged and some part of her probably realizes that her trying to survive on her own would end disastrously. It's absolutely awful, but it's a case of sticking with the evil you know because you know it and are sure of how bad it is. The unknown, however, is a thousand times more terrifying as it has limitless potential.


	12. no truth in you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to do help I'm feeling.
> 
> Another round of thank yous to my lovely beta, Red Bess Rackham.
> 
> Warning: Allusions to domestic abuse

"Same Mistakes"

Closing in on December  
And it's hard to remember  
All our plans got dismembered  
But we ended up right here  
Lost track of the timing  
Looking for silver lining  
Getting old and un-winding  
But it's still not very clear  
So it's true that we build up our  
Lives around safety routines  
So what's new  
At the end of the day  
We're well-oiled machines

Deceive me so sweetly  
I need the innocent ones to revolt  
Pull the wool from my eyes  
Cause it takes the change  
I never make  
I don't want to make do  
With same mistakes.

Eric Hutchinson

* * *

**he calls for her the next day. she goes because she must pay the bills and because she really can't stay away.**

Natasha couldn't have imagined the kind of terror she felt when she heard that Clint had called for her the next day. It made her feel actually sick, her stomach seizing and her throat tightening and her whole body pulling away from the girl delivering the message, like she would be able to distance herself from having to see Clint.

She knew this was just another part of her punishment, another show made by the Landlord. It displayed just how little he thought of the remaining fragments of her image and pride. She went where he told her, no matter how she felt or what had happened to her.

Her hand shook as she dabbed on the make up, thicker and thicker and thicker, trying to hide what had happened. Of course, it didn't work.

It snowed as she walked to the specified motel. She pulled up her hood, steps a little jerky from the cold and apprehension. A part of her wanted out of the cold as soon as possible, but she she found herself going slow, partially because she hurt too much to walk quickly, and partially because she _didn't want this._

She waited a few moments before knocking on Clint's door, hand clenching and unclenching by her side, trying to steal a few more seconds of preparation. Her breath huffed out in front of her face, and her legs were shaking in the freezing air, but she waited.

Natasha liked the cold, liked how it made her focus on how uncomfortable she felt, rather than how she was expected to perform in front of Clint when she felt like wreckage inside. The icy air pushed past her jacket and flooded into her chest, freezing whatever was left inside. Natasha had tried burning it all away, tried indulging herself in Clint and allowing her reckless behavior to turn her insides to ash, but that hadn't worked. All that was left to her was the winter, the ice, and the snow. She could do this, she could do this. She was numb, she was disconnected, she was managing.

Natasha knocked on the door, the action making her knuckles sting. She waited the customary few seconds before Clint opened the door, and made her expression sultry and enigmatic as she told herself nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

He was already smiling when he opened the door, like he normally did. He stopped when he saw the bruises.

Clint looked guarded and uncertain as he took her features in, noticing everything. She wondered what tipped him off first. Was it the split lip, the careful way she held herself? Was it the bruise under her eye, or the one marring her opposite cheekbone? Was it the empty, terrified way she looked at him?

"Natasha." The word was flat and questioning, and something she was completely unused to. She prayed her own smile didn't falter.

**he asks what's wrong. she doesn't tell him. he starts to get upset, asks what. is. wrong?** **she says nothing.**

She raised her eyebrows, and he remembered himself. He stepped aside so she could walk in, but she felt the way he watched her, like she was a poorly kept thing in a zoo, something to be gawked at and pitied and wondered about.

"What happened?"

She pressed her lips in a tight line, took a breath, then draped her coat on the table.

"Nothing," she said, giving him a dazzling smile. He wasn't dazzled.

"Natasha. What—is— _wrong_?" Each word was deliberate and hard, impossible for her to ignore. She looked at him, thinking that it was kind of strange for him to suddenly start paying attention _now._ He almost looked upset, with his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. She saw a muscle jump when she said, " _Nothing._ "

"Fine," he bit out, going to sit on the chair. She sat on the arm rest, hand draped across the back of the chair. After a moment's obvious deliberation, he placed his hand on the inside of her calf. Natasha nearly closed her eyes in relief. She stood so she could position herself on his lap as usual, but he pulled his hand away.

Natasha looked at him, confused. He didn't raise his eyes from her thigh, so she carefully sat back down. After a moment, his hand was back on her leg, just touching her, just holding her. She swallowed, looked away.

"Why won't you tell me?" he asked after a while, the words a sad little whisper.

"There's nothing to tell, nothing happened. It's fine, I'm fine." The words tumbled out of her mouth, over the cut on her lip and the makeup on her chin and fell at his feet. Even from where Natasha sat, they seemed hollow and unimpressive.

**he doesn't say anything, and it's loud enough to make her ears hurt.**

Natasha glared at the opposite wall. Thinking about it all made her angry, suddenly, hopelessly _angry._ Why was he asking? What was it about this particular instance that was so _troubling_ to him? He had seen it all before, there was no way he couldn't, not after all of the times they had met. The bruises, the scrapes, that damn air of _shame_ that hung around her body, everywhere she went, they had all made an appearance, and he had always chosen _not to comment._ What made this time so special? Why did he suddenly get to stop being the polite gentleman that listened and waited, and suddenly become the pious knight that pushed and needled and tried to drag the answers out of her?

Clint looked at her, and she couldn't keep herself from meeting his eyes. They were tired, suddenly exhausted in the face of...whatever the hell this was. There was no mischievous smile, no bright cleverness, no jagged pain. It was like he was too tired to maintain any sort of facade, and was now just looking at her to see whatever he could.

She clenched her jaw, despising the whole situation. She didn't _want_ this, this wasn't the time for her to be angry! He was the person that had taken all of the ice she had caked around her soul and had broken it up, getting his fire inside of her chest and consuming her. He was the one that treated her like a person, that valued her time and hadn't demanded her to continue on after she had collapsed in the shower. He was the one that had sat in the bathroom as she snipped at his hair, and quietly asked about her secrets, and let her give them if she wanted. Natasha didn't want to _be angry._

Natasha leaned over and kissed him, needing to stop being angry and to stop thinking and to stop being looked at by those damnably beautiful and tragic eyes. Maybe if she just raced past all of this into territory they both knew too well, then he would stop being so upset.

She slipped onto his lap, pressing into him in way of anchoring herself, because she felt dizzy and everything inside of her was screaming that she stop, but she couldn't back out now. Their breath was tangled up between them, and she could feel his heart through his shirt, slower and more reasonable than the frenetic thing in her chest.

Natasha held his head in her hands, desperately pressing into his hair and jaw and skin, desperately trying to get him to understand that she _couldn't_ talk about this, couldn't crack open this part of her life because it was too new, too horrific.

Clint kissed her, and for a beautiful second, she thought that she had maybe done it, but then he pulled back, biting his lip. The sickening feeling of having the ground pulled out from underneath her was all too familiar, because she had just done this, she had just done it all with the Landlord and yet she _hadn't learned._

She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, waiting, yet again expecting something horrible. This was when she would be slapped, or pushed off his lap. This was when he would tell her to go home, that she wouldn't be paid, that he would call the police.

Natasha opened her eyes after a moment, terrified, but _needing_ to know.

Clint wasn't looking at her. He was biting his lip, chewing over the thoughts he was not allowing himself to say as he refused to acknowledge what had happened. Her dark lip stick marked his mouth, though, just as it marked her mistake. She sat up straight, hands slipping down to her lap. She had gone and messed things up, her recklessness completely breaking their routine. She never started first, and he _always_ kissed back.

Natasha stood up, absolutely hating herself. She fell back a step, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

She walked into the kitchenette to his right, making herself not look at him. She opened a cabinet and found a cup, and filled it with water to validify her movement, when really, she just needed to get away.

She could feel him watching her, eyes dark as they urged her to look around. She didn't, instead taking her time with the metallic tasting water and forcing him to wait. The silence that covered them was awful and oppressive, pressing against her skin and making her ears hurt.

**he asks why she does this, and she is confused.**

"Why, Natasha?" he asked after a moment, and she jumped. She turned to face him, wary.

"Why what?"

He gave one of his humorless laughs, a soft _'Huh'_ that just barely passed for a chuckle. Clint shook his head and stared at the ceiling, as if trying to find his answers there.

"Why...why do you lie to me?"

"I don't lie," she said. She blinked a couple of times, questioning herself for a second because the habit had forced the words out of her throat, not actual thought. But she was right, she didn't lie to him. How could he even _imply_ that, after everything? She had thrown her history and everything else she had at his feet, and not _once_ had she changed the truth.

"You lie about being fine, about now needing help," he answered, voice tight. She looked away from him, stomach dropping, because, _okay,_ she had never acknowledged that she had needed help. But that wasn't the same thing, that wasn't _lying,_ it was just...it wasn't lying.

"You never, not _once,_ admit that you need help, Natasha, and I don't—what can't you tell me? What is _too horrible_ for me to know?"

Natasha snapped her gaze back to him. His voice had risen on the last bit, his anger getting the better of him. And though it made her flinch, because, in her world, a man yelling at her was generally accompanied by some sort of perverse punishment, it reminded her of her anger. He was lecturing her about not asking for help? He, who had had the _living shit_ beaten out of him on a regular basis by a loan shark and his lackeys, was criticizing her for not broadcasting her own problems into the world?

How many times had she asked him? How many sticky notes had traded hands until he _finally_ acknowledged that he was being brutalized? And even then he wouldn't really tell her why, merely that he had 'become involved', whatever that meant.

How could he even _act_ like this was his place to look down on her and her selfish, idiot ways?

Natasha just _stared_ at him, pouring all of her words into him without saying anything, because she was too afraid, because she knew that this burned more. He clenched his jaw and turned his head, still looking at her. He knew _exactly_ what she was thinking, and for a moment, Natasha found a sick moment of pleasure because _finally,_ he was the one that got to writhe.

Clint shook his head, and broke eye contact. He rubbed his face in his hands, then stood up.

"Alright. Don't tell me, then," he said, and walked out the door.

Natasha continued glaring at the door after it closed, because there was steel in her blood and she wasn't ready to give it up just yet. But then she realized that her hand was shaking and her lips were pressed together to keep a pathetic, mortified scream from escaping, and her head felt light and she thought her legs might give way again.

She set down the cup, stumbling back and bracing herself against the wall. Her heart was once more screaming in her chest, and she couldn't think, she couldn't think, she couldn't _think._ Had she just done that? Had she just _chased_ her client away? What was she supposed to do? Had he left for good, was she supposed to leave as well? If she went now, she would probably run into Clint again, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to handle another confrontation. She had already claimed her miracle, in being able to face him down so beautifully, so _stupidly._

Natasha crouched down against the wall, hands pressed over her mouth to muffle the sound coming out of her mouth.

What had she even done? What did this mean for her? If he was really gone, then she wouldn't get paid, and the Landlord would give her absolute hell. But no, no, she didn't have to go home empty handed. She could find another client in a bar or somewhere, and make up the difference. When Clint stopped calling, the Landlord could assume whatever he wanted. Regulars had stopped calling before, it wasn't anything new.

Natasha braced her wrists against her temples, trying not to hyperventilate and to just _think._ What was she going to do now? Take a chance and wait for Clint to come back, or go out and find another client?

She stood up and walked to the foot of the bed. She shifted from foot to foot. Clint had walked out of the room, but he hadn't left a sticky note. And his things were still there, but then, this was his hotel room, he could come and go as he pleased. But something inside of her was convinced that he intended to return. He _had_ done this before, had left the room before he actually intended to leave. She thought about the heinously awkward situation it had been, him leaving and then coming back to find her awake and drinking his coffee.

She nodded to herself, convinced. If there was no sticky note, then he wasn't really gone. He probably expected her to still be there.

Natasha sat down, feeling a moment of sunny relief. Then, what was supposed to be a simple inhale turned into a choked gasp, and she was suddenly sobbing. She put her face in her hands, both to hide the tears and smother the loud sounds she was making, then she remembered that there was no one around to know that she was crying. Natasha tipped her head back, suddenly feeling _miserable._ But of course, she should have expected this. Her life was only staying true to form, souring the one good thing she had?

She laid down where she sat, and drew her knees up to her chest. At this point, she couldn't be bothered with Clint walking back in and seeing her, she just wanted to cry and not deal with anyone hearing or seeing or conspiring against her _._

It was dark when she finally sat up, her tears reduced to nothing but vague trails on her face. She walked into the bathroom, and tried to remove a bit of the catastrophe that was her make up.

She sniffed and wiped at her nose, and forced herself to just look in the mirror. Her nose was red and running, and her eyes weren't much better. The concealer she had used to hide her bruises had smeared off, and the injuries jumped out at her, dark and unhappy. She kept huffing through her mouth, trying to get her breathing under control, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. But then, she hadn't had much to begin with.

The worst thing, though, was that Natasha figured she could still be called pretty. That was the terrible trick about her trade. The girls always looked so _nice_ on the outside, belying the absolute _wreckage_ on the inside. The bits that made her human were gnarled and stunted and pathetic, and she honestly didn't know if there was a way to ever fix them.

Natasha cleaned off her face as well as she could, then went and found her cup. She sipped at the water, knowing that she very well might start vomiting if she didn't.

Natasha turned off the lights in the room, then dragged herself back to the bed. She leaned against the edge as she pulled off her clothes off in the dark, and tossed her pumps towards her coat. She climbed underneath the covers, too tired and miserable to care about what she was and wasn't supposed to do.

She closed her eyes, and just listened. She listened to the sound of her breathing, and her heartbeat, and to the sound of the cars and the people outside.

She wondered where Clint was.

**the next morning, she can feel him there beside her.**

Natasha opened her eyes, then grimaced and closed them again. She took stock of herself for a moment, hardly surprised to find that her injuries still _really_ hurt. She pulled her legs up to her chest, not wanting to have to get up and deal with the day.

There was something warm near her back, and her heart thrilled at the idea that Clint had returned. Natasha let the idea swirl about her head for a second, because she didn't care that she had to face him now, didn't care that they had to deal with the repercussions of last night, didn't care about _any_ of it. She was just happy that he had come _back._ He had come back into the room, and had seen her in bed. Clint had climbed into bed beside her, had hopefully touched her cheek, or brushed her hair. He had returned, maybe not for her, but he was there nonetheless.

Natasha gave a soft sigh, signaling that she was awake. He didn't move. Natasha waited, aching to roll over or change positions, but she remained patient. Eventually, Clint got out of bed. He didn't touch her, didn't say anything. He acted the same as normal, but things _weren't normal._ Something had changed and Natasha didn't know what, but she did know it could never go back.

She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter when she heard him get dressed and quietly left the room. She bit her lips, wishing that he had spoken to her, wishing she had done _something_ other than wait to be acted upon.

Natasha sat up, barely noticing the cold. She looked around, feeling her happiness dissipate yet again. She rubbed her face, then stood up. She got dressed just as he had, silent and acting as if nothing special had happened.

Her stomach dropped when she noticed the bottle of orange juice on the table. A pastel yellow sticky note sat on the wide green lid, quietly waiting for her attention. She braced herself against the table, taking a slow breath.

He had remembered. She had told him once that orange juice was her favorite, _months_ ago, and he had remembered. She bit her lip, willing herself not to start crying again, and a long moment passed before she could continue.

Natasha slipped into her coat, unable to keep her eyes from drifting back to the bottle. Once she was ready, she just stood there, trying to figure out how to approach things.

Natasha pulled the sticky note from the lid and stared at it. There were a lot of words on that little piece of paper, even though it was blank.

She carefully set it in her pocket, and allowed herself one last breath to calm herself. She picked up the bottle.

Of course, the money was underneath it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely another tipping point in the story. Clint and Natasha haven't really spoken to each other, but there are things in the open now that they both are going to have to face, and soon.
> 
> I find it interesting that, although they are arguably more familiar with each other to the point of being almost personal, they are having a more difficult time actually speaking to each other. Before when they were talking about their past, everything was fairly easy to deal with. Now, though, the present is so much more daunting and dangerous because it is really the only thing that can affect their futures.


	13. dying in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it comes here it cOMES HERE IT COMES. Also, the song is more from the Landlord's POV than Natasha's.
> 
> Warning: An extended scene of nongraphic domestic abuse.

"Girl with One Eye"

She told me not to step on the cracks  
I told her not to fuss and relax  
Pretty little thing stopped me in my tracks...  
I took a knife and cut out her eye  
I took it home and watched it wither and die  
She's lucky that I didn't slip her a smile...

I said, hey, girl with one eye  
Get your filthy fingers out of my pie  
I said, hey, girl with one eye,  
I'll cut your little heart out  
'Cause you made me cry.

I slipped my hand under her skirt  
I said don't worry, it's not gonna hurt  
My reputation's kinda clouded with dirt  
That's why you sleep with one eye open  
And that's the price she'll pay.

The Ludes

* * *

**one of the younger girls asks if she hates the landlord.**

Natasha ran the brush through Gracia's hair again, liking how calm and rhythmic the movement was. They were sitting on Natasha's floor, Natasha leaning against the bed, Gracia settled on the floor between her legs. Natasha separated out Gracia's hair, and began braiding it. She hadn't braided someone else's hair since her grandmother had been alive.

"Thank you," Gracia said, voice quiet. "I haven't had someone do my hair in...a long time."

"It's fine," Natasha said, finishing up the braid. It hung around Gracia's shoulder blades, a sleek and dark black line down the middle of her back. "I don't mind it, really."

Natasha settled her hands in her lap, staring at Gracia's hair. Gracia stayed still, as if afraid any disturbance would make Natasha send her away, now that her work was done.

"Do you...ever get tired of it?" Natasha asked after a long pause. The little girl tensed, clearly afraid of a trap. It took a second, but Gracia forcibly relaxed. Natasha of all people wasn't going to trick her, and land her in trouble with the Landlord. The still-fading bruise under her eye was proof enough of that.

"Of what?" she asked, voice hesitant.

"Our work. Do you ever wish...for something else?"

Gracia turned to look at Natasha, expression tight and uncertain.

"Like your sticky notes? Do I wish for something like that?"

Natasha pursed her lips, thinking. After a moment, she nodded. Gracia knew that those sticky notes had been a wish for something so much more. She didn't know where they had come from, but she understood.

Gracia gave a soft sigh, tilting her head as she thought. A few beats later, she returned Natasha's nod.

Natasha looked into Gracia's face, too tired and dark for her age. Dark and tired, and yet, also too honest for the life she lived.

Natasha held her breath, and then pulled Gracia into a hug. The little girl was frozen for a moment, then she melted into Natasha's hug, little arms wrapped tight around her ribs. Natasha closed her eyes, understanding why Gracia held on so tight. Any touch like this was so, so rare. The only other real display of affection Natasha had received in years was...

She cut herself off, because she didn't really know if she _had_ received any true displays of affection. That didn't keep Clint's face from swirling to mind.

"Natasha," Gracia asked after a while, pulling back from the hug, "I have a question."

"Alright."

"Do you—" she cut herself off, chewing her cheek and looking away. Gracia looked back, eyes nervous but determined.

"Do you hate the Landlord?"

Natasha blinked at her, surprised at how frank Gracia had been. Words like that could be a death sentence in the boarding house, but then again, she was in Natasha's room. She was safe there.

Natasha chewed on her answer, thinking. She looked around the room, then drifted back to Gracia. She wanted to say yes. Of course she did, obviously she did, it was the first response to enter her head after the question had been asked, but she didn't say it. It wasn't that she didn't trust Gracia, but there was still something inside of her that whispered caution. The last time she had ignored that voice, she had gotten herself beaten.

Instead, Natasha just gave a smile. The sadness was heavy on her lips.

**it is dark when she hears the banging, hears the shouting.**

Natasha heard the noise from down the hall, but she didn't move. It was late, she had only been in bed for a little while, she was tired and she was warm. It was not her problem. When the noise moved closer to her, she curled up tighter, bracing herself against her pillows, like that would keep her safe.

It didn't work.

The door burst open, and suddenly there were hands on her before she could move. Natasha gasped as she was jerked up right, frantically trying to understand what was going on. She shoved the hands away, but they just hit her face and jerked her back into the wall. The Landlord, then.

Then he grabbed her by the shoulders, and was screaming in her face. It was dark, and he blocked most of her sight, but she could see the congregation of girls in her doorway. They still respected the rules enough to not cross the threshold. But then, they might have just been afraid of being caught in the Landlord's wake.

Natasha turned her face away from him, more to avoid the reek of gin than to escape the noise.

"—you tryin' to _short_ me, Natasha, you're tryin' to do that again, right? Like the _last_ time wasn't bad enough for ya? I can't have you not doin' your _damn job_ and _lyin'_ to me!"

He slapped her, then shoved Natasha off the bed. She scrambled upright, ignoring the remembered pain in her black eye and split lip, frantically trying to understand, trying to figure out just what she had done _this_ time.

"I—I haven't _lied,_ " she said, trying to get the words out past her confusion and reopened lip. As she tried wiping the blood away with her wrist, she suddenly realized this was a horrible echo of her conversation with Clint. When he had asked after her, the first thing to tumble from her lips had been denial as well. It had been so instinctive that she had believed it herself. Now it just seemed like a joke. Of _course_ she had lied. How could she have ever told him about _this?_

"You don't lie _,_ you don't _lie?_ You wanna tell me that _again_?" he screamed, reaching down and yanking on her hair, as if that would make her understand better. Natasha bit back a whimper and stared at him from the floor. She was trying to think, but all she could come up with was that she was scared, and that there was no way she was going to make it out of this one unscathed.

"What-what do I lie about?" she amended, hating the shake in her voice. The Landlord laughed, and the sound grated against her bones.

"What'd ya lie about? Well, I'll tell ya, girlie. It's sleepin' with them! You don't sleep with the _damn customers_ , which is a great big no-no when you're nothing but a shitty little slut!"

"I _sleep_ with them," she spat back, because she was _angry_ now. After all the things he had done to her, of all the things he had stripped from her being and demanded she do, there was no way Natasha could just allow him to say that she didn't tear away her soul on a daily basis by screwing strangers to get him money. Plus, there was no point in keeping her teeth on her tongue. Natasha knew she didn't have anything left to protect or save.

"What the hell do you want, me to record myself while I screw them? Is that what you need, _proof_?" Natasha could taste the blood in her words, felt the accusation and indignation in her teeth, but she knew it wasn't reckless wrath tearing at her throat. It was all stone cold fear, coercing her into putting on a big front, because if she gave into the least little bit of terror, then she would shut down completely.

"If you sleep with _every single one_ of those idiots, then why the _hell_ did Alexandria see your customer leave his damn room for over an hour, and you still get paid for the whole time?!"

Natasha felt her stomach freeze. She shot a lethal glare over at Alexandria, whom she _knew_ was standing right in the front, watching Natasha finally be kicked from the rank she had been clinging too. Alexandria caught Natasha's look, and just lifted her chin, a tight smile on her face.

She looked back at the Landlord, making sure the ice reached her eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Who would _pay_ for something they didn't use?!"

The Landlord hurled her hairbrush at her, and Natasha cowered into the side of the bed when it struck her thigh. He looked like he might upend the whole room on her, but she knew she couldn't try to run. If she did that, who knew what he might to do her.

"I _told ya_ , Natasha," he said, words a soft hiss as he leaned over to her, "I can't have girls slackin' off, I can't have thoughts put in their little, vulnerable heads. I will _lose customers,_ and I can't _have_ that."

The last words were a snarl, ripping from his lips and clawing at her ears. She clenched her teeth, trying not to keep cowering, trying not to look so weak. It wasn't that she was worried about how she looked to the others, it was that she was tired of _feeling_ small and pathetic.

**she says he hasn't lost customers. she's getting paid, he's getting paid.**

"But you _haven't_ lost any customers," she spat, angry that she was doing this, angry that she was continuing to hop when ever she thought he was looking her way. She didn't want to do it. She had had enough of worrying and fretting and _not caring._ Because she _did_ care, and she _did_ want to do something. She just didn't know how, or what.

"The money's still coming in to me, and it's going to you. Who cares what I do to get it?"

Those were wrong words. The Landlord looked angry enough to break her, but he didn't move towards her. He just stared down at her, a hard smile on his lips.

"But _Natasha_ , that's the big ole kicker. You're _not_ getting' paid, not by that loan shark."

Natasha's very soul turned to ice. He laughed, but he didn't sound remotely amused. His eyes were all vicious wrath, his precious control gone, now that he was drunk. The way he looked at her made all of the air stop up in her throat. She wished he would go back to throwing things at her. At least she knew what to expect, then. But this…this _stillness_ was horrific.

"That's right, Monique told me about it. She got suspicious 'bout you pickin' around him, and checked with me. No call, no mention, no money. Just you waltzin' up to his little Manhattan apartment and wandering' back hours later."

"I—I didn't—that wasn't—"

"What's _what_?" he snarled, grabbing hold of her hair. "You tell me just what happened there, okay? You tell me what happened, and I might just have a bit a mercy, yeah?"

She stayed silent, staring into his face and biting the inside of her lips so she wouldn't burst into tears. He sneered at her, jerking her hair as he spoke.

" _Well_ , Natasha? What happened?"

"I won't do it again," she whispered, because she knew that was what he wanted. He wanted her to be guilty and to feel ashamed over it, to be the one who did wrong.

"Oh, no, no you won't," he spat, the words burning her skin. "You most _certainly_ won't be doin' it again. You won't be doing anythin'."

Natasha gasped, tears coming now, because she didn't know what he was going to to do. This wasn't like other times, when she didn't know how badly he would make her hurt, how publicly he would shame her. This all had a much more brutal, permanent sort of feeling.

**he kicks her out. all the girls watch.**

The Landlord yanked her up by her hair, growling at the girls in the door to move aside. When they didn't hear, he roared at hem, making them all scatter.

"Someone get her stuff, she's goin' out," he barked, and a couple of girls ghosted into her room, eyes on the floor.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, hands on his wrists as he dragged her down the hall. "Don't touch my things, put them down, put them _down!_ No, please, don't do this! _Don't do this!_ " she shrieked, writhing and trying to break free. Terror was wrapped around her stomach, and she had no idea why. She despised it here in the boarding house, and yet, it was really the only horror she knew how to defend against.

She clawed at the Landlord's hands, kicking at his legs in a desperate attempt to be released. He growled at her, and rammed her into a wall. Natasha grit her teeth, grinding the rest of her protests into dust. She knew they wouldn't do her any good. She did not want to be one of the ones that begged to stay, that begged to be abused, no matter how terrified of the rest of the world she might be.

That didn't stop her from crying out in pain when the Landlord hit her, and it didn't keep her from despising the Landlord and all the girls that just stood by and watched her suffer. She glared at them as she passed, hair in the Landlord's fist, dignity a pathetic mess smeared behind her, hobbling to keep up with the Landlord's long, angry stride.

Blank faces, every single one of them. How many girls had they seen, ripped from their room and thrown to the dogs? How many different voices had been heard as they screamed for mercy, how many thousands of tears had been witnessed as they stained the floor? Natasha was nothing special in this place. She was not the first girl to be thrust from grace. She herself knew exactly how this all went, she had seen it so many times before. It was just her first time actually experiencing it.

When they reached the lobby, Natasha's heart stopped in her throat. Through the front door, she could see snow. It had been turned orange from the street lights, and was drifting to the street. She glanced down at herself, wearing little more than her underwear.

"I've had enough, Natasha," the Landlord yelled at her, kicking the door open. "I've been kind, and I have given you warnings and chances, but now I am _done,_ and you are _finished."_

He shoved Natasha through the door. She gasped as the cold slapped her skin, resisting the urge to scream and scramble to her feet. If she got back up, the Landlord would surely hit her again. As it was, he threw her things at her, and they sank into the snow and bounced off her skin. Natasha stayed where she was, waiting, waiting. She heard the Landlord spit into the snow, then silence.

She looked up, then fully straightened. A few of the girls in the doorway flinched at her gaze, and immediately left. Others turned away when they had had their fill of the spectacle. The girls trickled away, the silence awkward and stuffy, like they had mistakenly sat through the credits of a film for too long.

Then Natasha's eyes fell on Gracia, the one person left in the empty doorway.

She was crying, leaning against the frame and holding it like it was the last sane thing in the world. Natasha shook her head at her, stomach clenching at the thought of the Landlord's wrath falling on the little girl for her compassion towards Natasha. Gracia looked like she wanted to shout something, but Natasha shook her head harder, pleading with her eyes.

Rae appeared behind Gracia. She set her hands on the girl's shoulders, silently urging caution.

Natasha smeared the tears from her face, shivering now. Her arms and legs were burning with cold. She glanced around her, wondering where she was supposed to start. Natasha saw the black garbage bag full of her sticky notes, and bent over to pick it up. Her head throbbed when she leaned over.

A pair of feet appeared before her, protected by strappy sandals in the snow. Natasha glanced up, unsure what to feel. The girl before her was shivering already, and her messy blonde hair had several droplets of snow in it. Her dark brown eyes, however, were full of warm concern.

Rae held out a large garbage back to Natasha. She didn't say anything, but when Natasha reached out to grab the bag, Rae squeezed her hands. She still looked nervous, but her expression said that she was sorry.

Natasha nodded at her. Rae watched for a moment, then turned back to the door. She took Gracia's hand and led her back inside, both looking back at her over their shoulders.

She couldn't help but remember how, the only times she had really thought about Rae, she had only seen the overt anxiety, the chipped nail polish and frizzy hair, the serious risk she posed to Natasha. Now, she was the one Natasha was leaving behind to take care of Gracia.

The thought made Natasha want to both smile and burst into tears.

**it is cold, and she knows she cannot sleep outside. it is wet, and she wishes she had a home.**

Natasha forced herself to grab up her things and hurry away before the Landlord returned. It was cold enough to make even her hair shake, but she did it. When she was a block or so away, and her feet were red and painfully numb, and her legs and arms and neck and cheeks all stung, Natasha let herself stop and put on more clothes.

She braced herself against a wall, sorting through her belongings to find her coat, a real pair of shoes, and pants. When she put them on, they didn't feel like much, but she told herself that it didn't matter, it would do her good. Only after she had clothes on did she consider what she was going to do next.

It hadn't really sunk in yet. She stared at the dirty brick wall in front of her, frowning slightly as if it didn't make sense. She had been kicked out of the boarding house. She had been kicked out of the _boarding house._ That was her home, or at least the nearest damn thing to it.

If she was really being honest, though, she hadn't had a home since her grandparents died.

The thought of them sent her rifling back through the bag, frantically trying to find the old picture frame. It had sat on her nightstand, the only personal thing in her room, brazen and strangely hopeful in the face of her life.

The picture itself was about the size of her palm, and showed an old photo of her and her grandparents. It was of all three of them laughing and sitting together, unaware of what was to happen in just a few short years. Her mother had taken it, a few months before the car crash.

Natasha sniffed and wiped the glass with her thumb, smearing away a large snowflake and a tear that had fallen there.

What could she do? She obviously couldn't stay out in the snow, her teeth were practically chattering already, and she didn't know how long the snow would last, or how to really protect herself from it. She had a little money tucked away, but it wouldn't do much. She could buy a little food, maybe find a motel, but nothing that would last her more than a few days. If she went out, found a bar or a street corner…

No. She had literally just been thrown out of that life. She didn't want to claw her way back into it, for any reason, in any way.

What was left, what was left, what was _left_? What did she _have_ , other than her body, her scrambled wits, and what was in her bag?

Natasha's breath dragged itself out of her, then she yanked it back, faster and faster until she had to crouch down in the alley way and sob into her knees.

She didn't have a home. As much as she had _loathed_ him, the Landlord had given her shelter. Bizarre as it was, he had also offered her a bit of safety. She hadn't had to worry about gangs, or crazies, or other sorts of monsters finding her in the street. Now she had nothing.

Natasha sobbed a little harder, practically wailing as she crushed her mouth against the fabric of her coat. She clenched the picture frame in her hand, hardly feeling the hard edges making angry red grooves in her skin. She missed her grandparents, and her parents, and everything that had given her comfort. She wanted to get out of the cold alley, she wanted to go somewhere warm and curl up and not have to worry about anything. She wanted someone to take care of her, just a little bit.

Natasha looked at the picture frame again, missing her family so much she _ached._ When had she last spoken about them? No one in the boarding house deserved to hear about them, except maybe Gracia, and certainly no one else cared enough to bother themselves over where she came from, or how she was, or if she was alive at all—

Clint did. Clint had listened very patiently while she whispered her life's secrets to him, had asked for more as he wrapped his arms around her waist and she cut his hair. He had asked just to know, just because he was curious about her.

The idea made her stomach shriek at her. _No,_ of _course_ she couldn't—but she didn't have anything else—it was crazy to even _consider_ — _did she really have any other choice_?

Natasha closed her eyes, and ground the heel of her palm into her forehead.

Yes, there were other choices. There were plenty of choices, they all were just awful and contemptible and she _wanted_ to go see Clint. The idea had curled up inside of her and was refusing to move anywhere, determined to have its way.

Did she actually dare to go ask Clint to shelter her? Was she really so arrogant as to believe that he would accept an incriminating hooker into his home, just because she cried a little and spun him a sad story?

She thought of how he had helped her out of the shower after she had collapsed. She thought about how he had given her his food at learning she hadn't eaten, and then guided her to bed, not wanting so much as a suggestive look in return. She thought about how woeful and angry he looked when he saw her injured face.

She thought about how hurt he had looked when she refused to let him help.

Natasha held the picture frame to her forehead, held her breath for a moment, then stood up.

**she goes before she can think, because this is her last hope.**

Natasha ran to find the nearest payphone, praying that she will not lose her nerve. She searched for a couple of blocks, then she found it. She grabbed up the phone book. It was sodden and sad, but it had his name and address. Natasha's fingers were clumsy as she tried to find the right page, and then they started shaking so hard she could barely read the names.

There he was.

She read his address, over and over and over, memorizing it, scribbling it across her heart with a lit ember. Then she dropped the phone book, and turned to go find his home. She couldn't make her legs move.

This was hard, she suddenly realized. Fear and doubt were lashing her in place, whispering all of the reasons why she should _never_ go to his home. This was harder than the first time a car had pulled up and asked how much she cost, and it was harder than looking into the Landlord's face and realizing that she had signed her soul over to the devil. It was even harder than knocking on Ian Haulders' door, and demanding that he forget Clint's debt. This wasn't just doing things to survive. It was casting herself onto someone else's mercy, with her fears and her flaws open for the world, and praying that they not only catch her, but also hold her close.

Natasha took another breath, and forced herself to take a step. The wind kicked up and pushed her along, as if it knew she would never make it there on her own. When she reached the subway, the woman manning the booth gave her a slight nod.

"You're just in time, honey. Last train's about to come on over."

Natasha nodded back and almost smiled, then remembered that her lip had been split. Her teeth would have been smeared with blood if she tried.

The subway car was empty. She had seen a couple other people get on the train with her, but none had gone in same compartment as her. She was thankful. That way, at least, she wouldn't have someone staring at her as she had a break down.

By the time Natasha got off, her cheeks felt tight and sticky from the salt, but there were no more tears. She glanced around at the streets when she came above ground, getting her bearing. She had been here a few times in her early days, before she had gotten wise and decided to only work in cars and motel rooms.

She ran the few blocks to Clint's house, as if speed could make her panic fall off. The cold bit at her, trying to get inside, but this time she stabbed at it, refusing to let it get into her bones and kill what she was feeling. She wanted to feel. Feeling as good, feeling was a sign she was out of the boarding house, and she needed to understand and reconcile herself with that fact as soon as possible.

When she reached his address, Natasha stopped dead. She stood there, panting in the street, trying to get a proper grip.

He lived in a townhouse. It was connected to one other segment, and both were a soft blue color. It looked nice enough in the dark. The lights were on in the bottom floor windows, which Natasha told herself was a good thing. Clint was more likely to have mercy on her if she wasn't waking him up.

She stayed in place, though, telling herself that she still had time, she still had time, she did not need to go up the walk, she did not need to step over the snow drifts or adjust her coat or _knock on the damn door_ , but she was doing it and she had done it and then she just stood on the porch, heart screaming and breath catching and terror climbing.

She held her breath, ripping back the shriek in her throat and stuffing it down into her stomach where it wouldn't be a problem. She stared at the door, once more thinking that she still had time, she still had _time,_ she could run away and not see him and avoid this whole mess.

The door opened.

Clint looked out, confused for a second as he checked to see who was hammering on his front door when everyone should have been asleep. Natasha didn't even consider schooling her face into something more strategic, because this wasn't a time for facades or tricks, this was a time of sheer desperation and pleas.

Clint's face shifted from confused to understanding so fast Natasha nearly missed it. The expression was flat and unhappy, but not hostile. His little boy blue eyes looked almost mournful, which she could work with. Mournful was only a step away from pity.

"Natasha."

It was a question and a paragraph, all at once. She could hear the last hour of her life in his voice, the quick, horrible moments of being kicked out, and the long, agonizing minutes of trying to figure out what to do next.

She opened her mouth to say something to get him to let her stay or to help him or do _anything_ but turn her away, but her mouth ran dry. She gestured vaguely, making her plastic bag full of possessions rustle. Then she realized it had been rustling the entire time, what with her constant shivering. She just had been too caught up in anxiety to notice.

Natasha wondered what a sight she made.

 _Please,_ she begged with her eyes, practically seeing herself on her hands and knees before him. Clint watched her for a moment, not saying anything. He glanced back inside the house, which was tossing warmth at her body, either a cruel tease or a blessed invitation. She prayed there wasn't a new girlfriend or family member inside to complicate things.

"Come in," he said, stepping back and holding the door open for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T TOUCH ME I'M FEELING.


	14. lonely souls, us two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. It is beautiful and tragic. I love how gently it feels in comparison to the violence of the ones before.

"Refuge"

When it's cold outside  
There's no need to worry  
'Cause I'm so warm inside  
You give me peace  
When the storm's outside  
'Cause we're in love I know  
It'll be alright

'Cause you give me peace  
In the middle of the storm.

John Legend

* * *

**it is warm, and she is wet. he closes the door behind her.**

Natasha stepped inside, feeling very out of place. She forced herself not to look back and stare at Clint, anxiety climbing up into her throat. She paused at the edge of the entryway, stealing glances at his home.

It was comfortable, with soft looking carpets, dark, luxurious furniture made of wood and leather, and cool colored walls. Most importantly, it was _warm,_ which only reminded Natasha of how freezing she was.

The door shut with a soft click, and she finally allowed herself to look at Clint. His eyes were on the floor, but his expression was serious. When he glanced up at her, his smile was fleeting and empty.

Natasha adjusted her grip on her bag. She was suddenly choking on the urge to burst into tears, but she was tired of breaking down in front of him.

What was she supposed to do? Where did she fit anymore? She had left her grandparent's small apartment, been cast out of the boarding house, and was now huddled inside Clint's expensive townhouse. None of them seemed to suit her in her mind, each one scraping against her skin and making her acutely aware of what a catastrophe she was.

Clint edged past her, and Natasha drew away. She watched him cross the room, go past the brilliant looking kitchen, and turn down a small hallway. Natasha took a step to see where he had gone, then froze, glancing down at the pale carpet and her filthy, soaked shoes. She stepped back onto the entryway tiles.

"Here," Clint said, reappearing a moment later. He tossed a towel at her, and it felt almost sinful against the skin of her hand, soft and warm and thick. She took a moment to soak in the foreign nature of its luxury, then set down her bag and slipped out of her coat.

Natasha squeezed some of the water out of her hair, then wrapped the towel around her, knowing there wasn't much else she could do at that point. Clint watched her, expression still deeply troubled. She couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. This was such an intrusion, and she had no right to ask it of Clint.

"What happened?"

Natasha gave a weak start at his voice, then glanced down at herself. Her life had imploded, as it was wont to do, that's what had happened.

She shook her head, unable to bring herself to speak.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, voice dark and angry. Natasha tensed, instinctively wanting to recoil from his voice, but a quick look told her he wasn't angry with _her._ Not directly.

**she looks away, unable to speak.**

Natasha turned her face away, staring at the back of his dark leather couch, hating how weak she was being. Tears stabbed at her eyes, and she clenched her teeth, trying to will them not to fall. She wasn't ready to cry in front of him, she had done that enough, she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready.

She did, anyways.

Clint watched her for a moment, watching her quietly sob to herself, then sighed. This was the point when he would walk away, would drag himself up the staircase in the corner, because it was late, he was tired, he didn't need to deal with her pathetic drama right now. He would come back down in the morning, when she had had time to compose herself.

Clint walked over, and wrapped his arms around her. Natasha gasped, still completely shocked that he would even bother to give her comfort, much less reassurance, and then her face was in his shirt. He ran a hand over her wet hair, the touch soft and painfully sincere.

"It's alright, Natasha," he murmured, "it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. You're safe here, you're okay. I'm here, I'm here, it's alright…"

The words were repetitive, the things that might be whispered to a distraught child, but Natasha didn't care. He pressed his lips into her crown, then rested his chin on top of her head. She pressed herself into Clint, trying to soak up as much as she possibly could of…whatever the hell this was. This was what she wanted, to be held and consoled and handled with care. She wanted this, she wanted this from Clint.

Clint waited her out, arms firm around her as she wept out her grief. She had touched him thousands of times before, had felt his skin and hair, and sometimes his very soul, but she had _never_ felt him stand so strong. After a point, Natasha just leaned into him, her tears slowing and becoming quieter.

Finally, she pulled her face from his chest. She blinked at the tear stains on his shirt, and the creases her hand had made from clenching the fabric.

"Why don't…why don't you head up and take a shower, warm up," Clint said vaguely, gesturing at the stairs. He was looking somewhere near her elbow, expression unclear.

Natasha lingered for a moment, then nodded. She glanced around at her bag, and starting rifling through it, pulling out the things she needed. Natasha leaned over to take off her shoes, then remembered what the mess she had tracked into his house.

"Oh, I should…" she mumbled, but he waved his hand, taking her towel and coat.

"No, it's fine, I got it. You go get warm. Then get to bed, you look like you need it," he said. She paused, and finally looked him full on in the face. Natasha searched desperately for the anger, or the annoyance, or embarrassment or pity or _anything_ that might be lingering in his face, but she couldn't find it. He just looked at her, his little boy blue eyes laying her bare, yet again. They looked unimpressed.

**she goes, unsure but not wanting to disobey.**

Natasha nodded again, and moved towards the stairs. Not listening to him seemed like more of an infraction than not cleaning up after herself. Besides, if she knew how to take care of herself, she wouldn't have knocked on his door. She glanced back at Clint when she reached the bottom step. He looked lonely, hanging up her coat and putting her towel in the laundry. He looked tired and lonely. She went upstairs.

Clint hadn't explained the layout of the house, but she discerned his room right away. It was the only one that looked like it had more than dust as a visitor. His room also shared the floor with a guest bathroom, what Natasha guessed was a linen cupboard, and a study. But no other bedroom.

Natasha stood on the top step for a moment, chewing her lip, then made a decision. She moved into his bedroom, and turned on the light to the master bathroom. It was nice, like everything else in Clint's home. The counters were of a dark grey tile, and the walls were a crisp, light blue. All of the appliances were white, giving a bright, clean feeling.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha set her things down on the counter. She closed the door, and then crossed over to switch on the water. With that done, Natasha turned back to face the rest of the bathroom.

The door stared at her, large and judgmental. She fidgeted, suddenly feeling the anxiety of her situation catch up to her.

Did she need to lock the door? This was Clint's house, was she allowed to do that? It wasn't like he was going to walk in on her by accident, though. He knew where she was, what she was doing. And he respected her privacy, at least, that's what she had come to more or less believe. This wasn't like the boarding house, where girls flat out didn't care.

He wasn't like the girls. He wouldn't inconvenience or hurt her like one of them. But he was still able to.

The Landlord's face suddenly flashed into her head, and Natasha practically bolted for the door, locking it tight. She stood there a moment afterward, forehead pressed against the wood. She was almost panting, and when she pulled her hand from the knob, she realized that it was shaking. Natasha closed her eyes, wishing she could push the image of his hands and sneer and vicious eyes from her head.

Natasha searched quickly for a towel and wash cloth, then started pulling off her clothes. She stepped into the shower, and then slid the glass door back closed. The water was nice against her skin, steady and warm and comforting. It stung when she let the stream fall directly on some of her bruises, but she didn't mind.

Using the bar of soap on one of the ledges, she washed off, trying to rub some heat back into her toes. She lathered the soap through her hair, suddenly needing to clean all traces of the boarding house from her.

She stayed in the shower just long enough to warm up, and then Natasha got out. She wiped off the water, and scrubbed down her hair, then glanced at herself in the mirror.

She was a sight, just as she had predicted. Her split lip had stopped bleeding, but it still looked raw and unhappy. A couple vague bruises had formed; one on her cheek bone, some on her arms, and a few on her sides. She looked thin, her arms and legs seeming bony and useless. She could clearly see her hips, and a shadow of her lower ribs. Natasha wondered why anyone would look at her, and see something desirable, why anyone would look at her legs, or what she passed off as cleavage, or the hard line that was her shoulder, and see something worth coveting. She wondered why anyone would want to take her clothes off, when they should really be putting them back on, hiding the skin that was stretched too tight against her bones.

A thump came from down stairs, and she flinched, glancing at the door. It was locked, she reminded herself, she was alright. Bathrooms may not have been safe like her room—like her _old_ room—but if they were locked, no one could get in.

Natasha clenched her teeth at the thought, and started putting on her clothes. She took the time to brush her teeth, scrubbing them over and over and over, trying to wash out the bad taste that had risen in her mouth.

When she could no longer stay in the bathroom, Natasha dragged in a breath, then unlocked the door. She stepped out into Clint's room, a little stunned by the darkness. She blinked a couple of times, trying to adjust, and stumbled to a chair she had seen earlier. She placed her things in it, then turned toward the bed. Clint had told her to lay down, and she needed to sleep. But was she allowed to use _his_ bed? There might have been one in the other room, the one she had thought was a study, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to search the rooms to find out.

Finally, Natasha just flopped onto the bed, body almost crying at how comfortable it was. She rolled over, and looked at the door. Light from downstairs was seeping up the steps, and she could hear the soft sounds of Clint moving around. He didn't seem to be headed in any time soon.

**she huddles under the covers, closes her eyes.**

The bed smelled like him, like spice and comfort and safety. She closed her eyes. When had he become associated with the word 'safe' in her head?

Natasha curled up under the blankets. She wrapped her arms around her legs, unsure if she felt strange because she was in someone else's bed just to sleep, or if it was because she was wearing clothes to bed.

She couldn't sleep. Her mind kept running loops, throwing images of the Landlord's rage, the other girls' apathy, and Gracia's misery into her face. That was all gone now, that was the past. She wouldn't have to face that ever again, so why couldn't she _stop thinking about it?_

Natasha held herself tighter, as if that might be able to press the thoughts away from her. She felt like a child again, when she would curl up tight underneath the covers, not moving for fear of the monsters lurking in the dark. Only now, the monsters were in her head, and she was too wise to think that laying still would keep her safe from them.

Natasha opened her eyes, and watched the lazy shadows snow was casting on the blinds. As cold and unforgiving as it had been to her just an hour before, she couldn't help but be entranced by it. Huge flake after flake wandered down, making little drifts of dark against the orange glow of street lights. It looked so peaceful, each glob of snow gently covering up the world, and its ugliness, and its grime, allowing everything to be nice and quiet and safe. All of the bad thoughts were cooped up inside, chased away by the beauty of the cold. It was alright. She was alright, she was fine, she could sleep…

A sound came from the hall, jerking Natasha out of her trance. She hissed in a breath, suddenly panicking and thinking only of the Landlord, returned to make her truly suffer, then she remembered where she was. She was in Clint's house, in his bedroom, underneath his covers. The Landlord couldn't find her, the Landlord didn't know where she was. It was just Clint.

He didn't say anything as he moved into the bedroom. Clint shifted around in the dark for a few moments, not bothering with the light.

What was he expecting? What was he going to do, now that he had Natasha in his bed? Was he expecting her to sleep with her, in exchange for room and board? Natasha didn't know if she would be sick or punch him in the face if that happened. Possibly both, anything was possible at that point.

She clenched her teeth as he pulled back the covers, and climbed in beside her. She was completely stiff for a moment, waiting, waiting, waiting. If he touched her, she would scream. That's all there was to it, if he so much as placed his hand on her side, Natasha would scream and _run._

Clint sighed, then fell still beside her. She waited a few seconds more, then realized that he hadn't changed, either. He was still in his day clothes, the fabric of his jeans just barely touching her foot.

**she smiles, even though he can't see it.**

"I didn't know that you'd kept them," he said, the words breaking through the silence like an ice pick. "Or, rather, I didn't think you'd keep them. The sticky notes, I mean."

Natasha blinked, a little shocked that Clint would have gone through her things. Now that he had, what did he think of her? What impression could her paltry possessions give, on top of her hopeless desperation and blatant abuse?

"I wasn't ever sure you'd keep leaving them," she admitted. She didn't turn to face him, just handed the words over, regardless of how small they sounded in the air.

"Of course I would," Clint whispered, rolling over to wrap an arm around her, like usual. "I always would."

Natasha broke into a smile, glad that he wasn't able to see it. She raised a tentative hand, and then took hold of the one he had slung in front of her. Clint didn't say anything, just ran a thumb over the back of her hand.

Natasha watched the snow's shadow for a few moments, then closed her eyes. Clint breathed beside her, each one slower than the last.

They were both laying in bed, side by side, quiet, tired, completely clothed...and Natasha loved every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I really want to convey with this chapter is that even though Natasha's out of the boarding house physically, she's completely stuck mentally. There is a gross amount of damage done to her and she doesn't know how to function as A Normal Human Being. There is a lot of work to be done before she can just settle down and be happy.


	15. everyone comes after self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a companion piece to this story called **poor little rich boy**. I _strongly_ suggest you read it after reading this chapter. There are some things that happen in this chapter that are only explained in that story, so please go read it!
> 
> also, for my non-American friends, I reference a drink in here called an orange julius. In its most basic form, it is just milk and orange juice mixed together. A milk shake-y version is the trademark of the beverage line Orange Julius ;)
> 
> Warnings: Language, mentions of domestic abuse

"The Enemy"

Give me hope in silence  
It's easier; It's kinder  
Tell me not of heartbreak  
It plagues my soul, plagues my soul  
We will meet back on this road  
Nothing gaining, truth be told  
But I am not the enemy  
it isn't me, the enemy

But I came and I was nothing  
And time will give us nothing  
So why did you choose to lean on  
A man you knew was falling?

Mumford & Sons

* * *

**she wakes up and it isn't snowing anymore.**

Natasha rolled over, pulling the blankets even higher over her head. It was so comfortable in bed with the nice, soft pillows, and the thick blanket, and more space than she was used to. She frowned at the thought, then forced her eyes open.

She was in Clint's bed. She was in Clint's bed and she was in his house and she was wearing all her clothes from the day before and he was not in the room.

She curled into herself a little tighter, wishing he was there. Natasha had been quietly reveling in the idea of being able to wake up next to him, finally be able to look him in the eye and whisper _'good morning_ ', but then she told herself to be quiet.

Now that she was awake, though, more thoughts were swirling about her head, whispering dark, worrisome things.

What was she supposed to do now? She had gone to Clint, and more than that, he had _accepted_ her. She still felt that schism of where she was, where she had been, and where she was supposed to be, all snarling up inside of her, and she was frankly terrified when she thought much farther than the next few minutes.

Natasha closed her eyes and ran her hands over her face, as if that could shake the worries loose.

She sat up, and glanced at the window. There was weak sunlight coming through, meaning that it was probably mid-morning. She made herself leave the warmth of the bed, and peak out of the blinds. It wasn't snowing anymore, but the street looked like an iced cake, delicate and beautiful.

Natasha paused in the bathroom to splash some water on her face, and to check just how terrible her hair was. She scowled at her reflection, ignored the bruises and split lip, and attempted to make herself more presentable by combing her hair with her fingers. After a long breath, she decided to go downstairs.

When Natasha made the landing, she heard Clint, probably down in the kitchen. Sure enough, Clint was standing in the middle before the stove when she left the stairs. He glanced over when he heard her come in, and gave her a nod. Natasha told herself that it did not matter that he didn't give her a smile. But she didn't deny that really, really wanted him to.

She settled at the counter, waiting for him to speak first.

He turned back to the stove, and Natasha realized that he was making breakfast, a neat plate of pancakes waiting for the remainder of the batch. She swallowed. She couldn't remember the last time someone had cared enough to make her something like pancakes.

"Can you get some plates?" Clint asked, glancing at her from over his shoulder. She jumped, then nodded. She followed his directions to the shelves, suddenly afraid of getting too close to him. Natasha pulled down two pale blue plates, and then grabbed some silverware from the drawer he pointed at with the spatula.

She laid them out, nice and neat on the counter, then stood by a stool, waiting for his next instructions. Natasha chewed on her lip and tried not to fidget as he flipped four more pancakes onto the plate, and finished up the last of the pancake batter.

**they both eat, and it is one of the happiest and scariest moments of her life.**

"It's something my ma did," he told her, eyes on the skillet. His voice was a little softer now, an almost lazy drift coming to his words. "She'd make me 'n my brother pancakes when we were sick, or if there was a storm or something. She put all sorts a crap in it, bananas and chocolate chips and stuff. Hope you don't mind just plain old pancakes," he said, offering her a tired smile.

Natasha smiled on reflex and shook her head, mumbling out, "Oh, no, it's fine."

He nodded as if satisfied, then turned off the stove.

"Go ahead and sit down," he told her, reaching into another cabinet and grabbing cups and syrup. Natasha sat down in front of one of the plates and blankly watched him as he moved the food over to her counter, and pulled out a container of milk and orange juice from the fridge. She smothered a smile as she picked up the orange juice and poured it into her cup. She was fairly certain that Clint was suppressing his own smile as he took the juice from her and poured both it and the milk into his cup.

They were mostly silent as they ate, the sound of forks against plates louder than anything they said. Natasha labored through three pancakes, wondering if she was truly allowed to just sit there and eat Clint's food and sit beside him and be quiet and revel in such a strangely _platonic_ moment with him.

Natasha loved the fact that he was maintaining a respectful distance, but she would have also loved to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him until she couldn't breathe. She made herself drink a little more orange juice, though, kept her hands busy with her food, and tried not to let her heart stop.

When they finished, they carried their plates to the sink, and rinsed the syrup off. They stood side by side, Natasha blasting her plate clean with water, while Clint swirled the syrup loose with a little water and his fingers. She settled into the corner of the counter, watching him wash his hands. When he had dried them off, he turned to face her. He looked casual enough, one hip leaning against the counter, arm braced to hold him up, but she could feel the tension between them, quietly setting her hair on end. She could feel the question settling on her skin before he opened his mouth.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Natasha shrugged, throat closing up again. She glanced across the room, frantically trying to think of some way out of it, of some way to keep from answering, to keep from reliving the horror she had been packing down so, _so_ hard.

She could feel Clint glaring at her.

**she explains, voice tight.**

She licked her lips, and let out a long, thin breath. He deserved the truth. He had let her into his home, no other questions asked. She could tell him _why._

"I…it's the Landlord," she began, eyes on the floor. "He…he'd had enough. He kicked me out, for good."

Clint was quiet for a long moment, then asked, "Why was he so mad?"

"It…was kind of my third strike."

"Third strike? Why, what'd you do?"

Natasha swallowed hard, refusing to look up, refusing to meet his little boy blue eyes, refusing to have him see right through her and find all of the ugly little truths she had been trying to hard to hide. She held her breath, trying to think of how to say what had happened without falling apart on the floor. She closed her eyes tight, then spoke.

"First, the sticky notes. He didn't like that I was…making attachments, that I had something he couldn't control."

She opened her eyes, suddenly unable to breath, unwilling to say anything, but the words were coming out and she couldn't stop them and he was seeing _her,_ in all of her wretched simplicity.

"Third, not…not sleeping with you and still getting the money. That's not—he's set up a system and he wants…his girls to follow it."

Clint frowned, but it was not upset like before. It was soft and concerned, sad over her misfortune. The thrills it sent through her stomach were wonderful and shameful, because it said that he didn't ever want to see her hurt, especially because of him. Another person's unhappiness should never have felt so delicious.

"What was the second strike, Natasha?" he asked, and she could hear how much he didn't want to know, but just like her, the words were there, demanding her response. Natasha was quiet for a long moment, then she made herself look at him. They had come this far, she could finally confess the filth she had been carting around in her soul for weeks.

"Second, sleeping with a customer and saying that they didn't need to pay."

"Okay," Clint sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Okay. Who…no, okay, no. What did this person do? Were they a gang member or something, somebody that might put him in a tight spot if they come back and demand the same again?"

"Kind of," Natasha admitted, her stomach curling tight against itself, because here it came, here came the truth, even though she was terrified and completely unequipped to be so damnably, frankly honest with anyone in the world.

**she tells him.**

"It—it was a loan shark," she admitted, finally looking away from him. She stared at one of the bottom cupboards, listening to her heart skitter back and forth and her breath drag in and out and the gears click round in his head.

"A loan shark?" His voice sounded like granite.

"Yes."

"Natasha, what was his name?" The words were quiet, but Natasha heard them well enough to tell that they were a demand, not a question. She clenched her teeth, then spat it out.

"Ian Haulders."

Clint was very still for a moment, but she could _feel_ the anger on his skin, drifting off and trying to knock her over.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. " _Why_ would you take sure a risk? Natasha—he could have—"

She flinched at the words he refused to speak. Things were tipping, tilting almost too far for her to stand up straight, and she couldn't think of any way to correct things, so she dug her fingers into the ground and dragged her eyes up to his.

"Clint, I—I couldn't—I had to."

"Why? _Why_ would you have to go sleep with that _bastard_ , what could have _possibly_ made you think that was a good idea! You had to have known—"

"I didn't want to see you hurt anymore."

"What?" Clint asked, catching himself short. He had been speaking so loudly that he hadn't heard her. Natasha felt the dread wrap itself around her bones, because this was it, she could neatly escape this whole thing, she could lie and give some other, even worse reason, she could say what he wanted and keep him from being upset with her, she could fix it all with a quick word. But the thought of hiding any more from Clint made her stomach churn, so she looked him in the face and committed herself.

"I said, I didn't want to see you hurt anymore. I had to do it, Clint."

"No," he said, so fast that it felt like a blow. "No, Natasha, no you did not. How could you even—" He bit down on the words and turned his head away from her. Natasha wanted to take hold of his face and press her forehead to his, because she didn't _want_ this, she didn't want him angry, she wanted him to hold her tight and say that things were fine and that he would take care of her and never ever _ever_ let her go.

Clint gave a long sigh through his nose, seeming to come to a decision. Natasha watched him, mixed up in hope and worry, not sure which was winning out.

**then things start to fall apart.**

"It doesn't make sense," he told her, words flat. "Why would you even do it? Why would you risk your _everything_ for me, hm? Is it 'cause if I'm beaten to the grave, I can't be your sweetest customer anymore?"

Natasha stared at him, feeling like he had just reached over and yanked all of the air from her lungs. She opened her mouth, this was _wrong,_ this was wrong, this was wrong, this was _not how things were supposed to work._ It had been so good, it had been _wonderful,_ but things were breaking all around her and Natasha wasn't sure if she was going to scream or break apart with them.

" _No,_ " Natasha said, and she made every inch of the word feel like a slap. Clint clenched his teeth, leaning back ever so slightly, because he _felt_ that, he felt just how wrong he was. But that didn't make him stop.

"Then why? Why'd you do it, because there _isn't another reason,_ Natasha. You are a _smart_ woman, you've gotta know that."

There was a warning there, Natasha could feel it, but she could also feel her own anger raising up, pushing the emotions out of her chest and into the air, even though they were far too young to be thrown into the harsh light of day.

She glared at him as he continued speaking, _daring_ him to go further. She really shouldn't have, because then he went and broke her heart.

"You shouldn't have come here. I don't know why—it was a stupid mistake. Natasha, you're a _prostitute_ and I'm just the asshole that kept hiring you when he _really_ shouldn't have. Don't you _get_ that? I'm not _that guy,_ I just pay girls to have sex with me, okay? And since we—"

"I didn't come here to be paid," she ground out, the words dark and harsh against her teeth. Clint looked at her, expression tightening, because he could feel what was coming, just as she could, he knew that things were about to get horrible, just as she did, but he probably didn't have a ragged, horrified, broken scream ripping through his chest and turning into the most brutal words he could find.

"I didn't _come here_ to be your little slut, Clint, I came here because I was _scared,_ " she hissed. The words were hard and strange in her throat, because she had told _no one_ of her fear, but now she was turning it against him, dragging knives out of her own chest and plunging them into his.

"I was so scared I could not think, and so _yes_ , I came here, I came here to ask you for help because I thought you were the one person in my life that didn't want cut me apart and nail me to their wall!"

"Why'd you think that, though, Natasha?" he asked, voice cold and thin, a wire that was wrapping itself around and around and around her neck, trying to choke the little bits of her the Landlord hadn't already gotten to. "Did you imagine this to be some sort of freakin' _fairy_ tale, where someone—where _I_ would swoop down and save you from your own damn decisions?"

Natasha snarled at him, because he had just stabbed her in the chest and she _would not_ let herself show pain, would not let herself shrink back and feel terrified because the Landlord had spat those same words at her, he had hissed them into her face and then he had beaten her until she could barely breathe. But it was hard, her thoughts spinning around her head so fast that it sounded like white noise, grinding and screaming and stealing all the breath from her body. This was not the man she thought she knew.

"You were plenty eager to help me the _first_ time I had the shit beaten out me," she said, and there it was. All of that ice that she had clawed away until her fingers were ragged and bleeding, all of that ice she had torn from her soul until she was left raw and afraid and exposed was gone, but there was one deathly, crystalline fragment in her voice just there. She could feel it spread throughout her, coating her in the safety and glory of having no heart. "What, did you realize it would be too much work to actually _care_ about some other human being? Or are you just used to looking at me like this that you've stopped caring? Because, here's a hint, you can't just _turn it off,_ Clint. You can't _punish_ me because I'm not doing what you want!"

"You knew _exactly_ what I wanted, right from the beginning!" Clint yelled back, away from the counter now, standing before her, fists clenched and teeth bared. Natasha didn't let herself feel fear, though. She had been cast in ice and blood and if he so much as _touched_ her, Natasha would _make him bleed._

"You knew who I was, some selfish son of a bitch that didn't care about you as a person, you were just a short dress with a pair of tits and nice legs, and I decided, hey, I'm going to fuck her and that's what I did! You can't just come here and act like _I'm_ the one that's changed, not when I've always _done my job._ "

She stared at him, almost unable to believe he would go so low. But then again, she had believed a lot of things about Clint that now didn't quite make sense.

"How dare you," she said, voice low and dark and full of death. "How _dare_ you say that to me, after all of this. You think that because you opened the door and took off my clothes and threw money at me that you're covered? You talked so sweet about _if it was still worth it,_ if putting food in my mouth the only way I can was worth going out and nearly _dying_ everyday was worth it, and yet when I try to change things, you put your foot on my chest and you kick me back down. How fucking _dare_ you."

Clint clenched his teeth, and for a second she thought she saw the barest crack in his eyes, a little chip of doubt. But then he shook his head, a flat, humorless chuckle escaping his lips.

"What were you expecting, Natasha? What did you _actually_ think would have happened when you came here and you threw yourself at the feet of a man that can't make _anything_ work right? I can't just _change,_ Natasha, I can't magically transform into somebody I'm not, and you should know that!"

"Get away from me," she snarled at him, voice low and about to break. Clint stared at her, not quite having understood.

"I said _get away from me!_ " she screamed, shoving him in the chest and making him fall back. Natasha stormed over to the door and snatched up her bag, which was still sitting by the entryway. She cast a vicious look back at him, and then yanked open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter murders me. Just gets me on my knees and stabs me in the heart.
> 
> Please read **poor little rich boy**. It will answer most, if not all, of your questions.


	16. miss me by my hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hello darkness my old friend*

"Feet Keep Moving"

This isn't a game you wanted to play  
You don't like the rules, no it isn't your way  
And you know this.  
You could cry for the days that have fallen away  
You know it doesn't have to be this way  
And you know this all.

Feet keep moving on your way  
Feet keep moving on your way  
Feet keep moving on off your way  
Feet keep moving on.

Natural Self

* * *

**the bag of sticky notes jostles in her larger bag, papery and sad.**

Natasha stalked down the street, anger shoving her past a few houses before the cold got to her. She braced herself against the fence of one as she fumbled with her shoes. She had been so angry that she hadn't even taken the time to put them on before she left. It took Natasha a moment to finally work them onto her feet, because her hands were shaking so badly. She didn't know if that was because of the cold, or the _rage_ still chasing itself through her bones.

Clint had _lied_ to her. He had made himself seem so good, so wonderful, so _trustworthy_ , that she had fallen straight into his lap. But why, why would he go to the lengths of tricking her, just to throw her out? Because he got a thrill out of destroying someone? Just to see if he could? Because he was a miserable son of a bitch, and needed someone else to suffer as well?

Natasha pulled on her hair to make herself stop _thinking_ about him, and tugged on her coat. It didn't make her feel remotely better.

How could he have _done_ that to her, how could he have just—after everything—and with so little _regard—_

Natasha clenched her teeth, trying to focus anywhere but her own head. The snow was thin and grating underfoot, her throat ached from all that she had yelled and everything she hadn't, and the bag in her hand swished back and forth, irritating her, and yet giving this strange, soothing sense. She could hear the soft, papery sound of the sticky notes jostling back and forth, small and sad. It made her think of the first sticky note Clint had ever given her, the one so blue she thought she might cry.

She had thought it blue and pretty, like his eyes. What a wicked mockery that turned out to be. It was still there, somewhere, curled up in the bag, the oldest veteran of a brutal and vicious war. It was blue. Blue, and probably ice cold from the freezing air stabbing at her lungs.

 _Like his heart,_ she thought bitterly, because she _hated_ him.

**she keeps walking, walks all day. it doesn't help.**

A few blocks later, Natasha found herself slowing down again. Where was she supposed to go? She had gone to him because there was nowhere else. It was winter, there was snow on the ground, she had no home. All she had were some clothes, a few handfuls of cash, and far too many sticky notes. They wouldn't even be good enough to last as a fire.

Natasha stopped into the mouth of the subway station, because there was no point going in, if she had nowhere to go. Then the wind kicked up, chasing her inside.

She wandered around for a little bit, feeling bruised and cold and so, so hurt. Everyone was focused on themselves, going to work, going to school, going to the store. She felt lost when she looked at them, because she wanted to say _please help,_ but it all got caught up in her throat, because no one was going to give her directions to a happy part of her life (Natasha did _not_ think about how she had been happy, just an hour ago, because it wasn't happiness if it was built on a lie).

After about twenty minutes of just walking the crowded, dim platforms, she walked into the bathroom. Natasha quietly made sure no one else was there, locked herself into a stall, and crouched down to cry. She should have known how it would have ended with Clint, that's how it had always worked out. And yet, it was still such a surprise.

When she cried herself out, Natasha felt empty. Not sad, not relieved. Just empty, like she had thrown all of her feelings away because she could not _stand_ it.

Natasha washed off her face with warm water, as if she could soak her misery away, then walked back to the main tunnel. She picked a train, and got on it. She bought food, and walked around the city. She bought a bag that could hold all of her things. It was from a street vendor, but she was too numb to care. Each icy gust of wind against her skin felt like a slap, because she had worked so hard to shed the ice from her skin, and yet it had been so, so easy to call it all back.

When it became dark, which was early, and yet not soon enough, Natasha went back to the subway. She waited until there was a rush of people, all cramming to get through the automated gate. Some of the impatient ones pushed through the emergency grill, not even looking around as they set off the alarm. She caught the grill before it closed, and slipped in past the gates.

**when she wakes up, a homeless man is sitting across from her.**

Natasha took a few seconds to study the map, then chose her train. She waited for a couple of trains to go by, watched people shuffle on and off, then decided to get on one. She managed to grab a seat in the middle, set her bag in her lap, and rocked with the train. The car wasn't too crowded, and one women spat angry words into her phone, large earrings swinging with each syllable. Natasha ignored it all. Her eyes drifted shut.

_What am I doing._

Someone coughed, and she straightened, a little embarrassed for no reason at all. Natasha bit her cheek, and slumped back.

_I have nowhere to go. Everything's a mess, it always ends up this way, I can't do this anymore._

A mellow, bored voice announced the new platform. Natasha opened her eyes, and watched people get on and off. A handful stayed, eyes dull.

_Clint lied to me. I believed it._

The subway started going again, the rumble of the train and the sound of people talking and the muted sound of someone's music playing too loud from their headphones was just a dirty little lullaby. She could do this.

_I have nowhere to go. I am sitting on a subway because I don't have a bed and I hate myself and I don't know what to do._

Another platform came and went. Natasha didn't open her eyes.

_I need a plan. I need something do to. What can I do, what can I do, what is there for me to do?_

Someone sat beside her. She could tell the car was emptier, just based from the sound.

_This morning I was eating pancakes._

Natasha bit her cheek. She needed to sleep, not think.

_I miss Clint's bed._

Her grip tightened on her bag.

_I miss my bed._

She needed a plan to prevent this from ever happening again. She thought she had had one before, had used the ice to keep herself aloof and isolated and so unfeeling. That had been a laughable tragedy.

When Natasha woke up, there was a man watching her. She shifted in her seat, giving him a flat, ugly glare, but his mild smile didn't shift. He was resting his elbows on his knees, the warm darkness of his skin marred by cold, dry scrapes of skin on his knuckles and backs of his palms. His eyes were a little bloodshot, but it was nothing to the obnoxious red of his hat.

"What," she snarled out, voice ragged from sleep. It sounded perfect. He shrugged and tilted his head, but didn't look away.

"You do this before?"

"Doing what?" she asked, feeling her ears burning, because it was obvious she was obvious her suffering was obvious and she desperately didn't want it to be. The only things she had left were her appearances, and a bag full of lying little sticky notes.

The man gave a soft laugh that was really more just a huff, and opened his hands in form of shrug. He glanced around the car, and Natasha found her eyes following his. There were fewer people than before. A man was talking into his phone, even though his eyes stayed shut, a teenager was playing on her handheld, a handful of people were tucked into their seats and seemed determined to not open their eyes unless the car caught fire.

"Settling in," he said. She was very, very glad he did not say the words aloud. She wasn't sure she would be able to stand the word _homeless_ just then.

"No," she admitted, because he already knew, and no one else cared. He laughed, and it sounded so, so sad. He shook his head and looked around the car, then sighed through his nose.

"It's always sadder that way, somehow," he told her, and Natasha didn't know what to say. "I could tell, y'know? I could just by lookin' at you, you hadn't done this before."

"…How?" she asked, not certain if she really wanted to commit to her ignorance. He pointed one tired, abused finger at her.

"It's in your lap."

Natasha glanced down at herself, a little surprised to see her bag held carefully on her lap. She looked back at him, questioning now.

"Always under your feet," he told her, kicking a small duffle bag underneath his seat with his heels. "If it's worth takin', it goes in your arms. If you don't care about it, put it down by your feet. Not a promise, but it helps."

Natasha gave a slow nod, then slowly set her bag down behind her feet. He gave her a tired smile, then closed his eyes. Natasha examined her travel mates. They stopped at another platform, and the train traded a few passengers. They looked more like the man across from her, tired, fumbling through to another place to rest. They looked more like her.

She closed her eyes.

People came and went, and when she woke up, they looked increasingly worse. Clothes were threadbare, beards unshaved, dirt everywhere. Natasha pulled her coat a little tighter.

When the train came to its penultimate stop, the man across from Natasha got up. She watched him through heavy eyes, curious. He hadn't moved much since speaking to her.

"Best to get off before the end, y'see what I'm saying? You get off early, you don't look like you're doin' what you're doin'. You get off early, and you switch trains."

Natasha gave another slow, stupid nod, and shuffled to her feet. He smiled at her, like he was encouraging her, and walked with her off the train.

"Next time, take the two. Then switch over to the A. They're the best," he said, and ambled away from her. Natasha watched him for a long moment, listening to the train's doors close, and feeling it suck at her as it pulled away.

**she gets a plan. she doesn't like it. but she doesn't see much choice.**

Natasha slept on another train as the man suggested. She chose the second longest train route, and settled for snatches of sleep as the train took her to a lot more nothing. The reasonable, cared for people straggled out, leaving more and more people who were just looking for a place to rest. Natasha tried to tell herself she was better than them, that she was _better_ than them, because she had a home and she had a job and she knew her place. But then the train car would jostle, and she would remember that she was sleeping on a train car, with her few belongings tucked under her feet, because she had been rejected by everything else.

She couldn't keep doing this. It was _snowing_ now, and it would probably stick until spring. She didn't mind scrounging, but she refused to beg for money, and she _had_ to find some place better to sleep.

What did she have? What did she have what did she have what did she have?

A whole lot of pride, and yet a whole lot of shame, because there were beds to be had, but none of them were hers.

By the time the train came to its next to last stop, she was cramped and sore and her heart ached, but she stumbled off with her bag in hand and a plan in her head. It was terrible, but she _could not_ exist this way, drifting about, pathetic and small until she finally melted away. Natasha felt like she might vomit, but it was all she had.

Natasha spent the day wandering around Manhattan. She trailed through Central Park, watched the people continue to rush by despite her life being in shambles. She walked a little slower whenever she went by the countless coffee shops and cafes along the roads, partially because they smelled amazing, and partially because they let out little gasps of warmth she so desperately needed. She allowed herself the luxury of eating at a place in Chinatown, stuffing her face on a lunch special and packing up every single bit of the left overs. She felt a little bit better with dim sum and barbeque duck warming her up, good enough to make her think that maybe, things wouldn't turn out as awful as she knew they would be.

When it grew dark enough, she peeled off her too thin layers, traded her pants for a skirt, and went into a bar. It was dark and a little smoky, but there were plenty of bored looking men. They made her stomach clench, because for half a second, she had truly thought that she wouldn't have to do this again. She had thought she had been _free—_

Then she had been very politely reminded that she was not allowed comfortable beds and handmade breakfasts and warm, kind blue eyes.

The men in the bar smiled and leered at her, recognizing Natasha for what she was. It was just more proof that she never really _had_ escaped her life, but she pretended not to notice and ordered a drink.

One man got brave, and decided to sit next to her. His hand brushed hers, and the smile he offered her was nice. His eyes didn't mean it. Natasha doubted she would see eyes that were honest ever again.

"What's in the bag?" he asked, nodding at the big of black garbage bag peeking out of the top of her new purse.

"It's a _secret_ ," she said, leaning in and whispering like she wanted him to be a part of her game. But she really just wanted him to leave with her, which he did, not fifteen minutes later.

The motel wasn't bad. The bed was big, the room dark, and he held no judgment when she walked out and counted her bills. She folded them up, and went to find the entrance to a subway that ran the number two.

**another night, another corner.**

Natasha woke up to find the man from the day before, yet again sitting across from her. He was smiling again, almost pleased that she had found her way to slightly better circumstances.

"Hi again," he said, and she nodded at him. He was quiet for a long moment, swaying as the train took a bend, then looked back at her.

"Are you out here by choice, or for bein' kicked out 'cause you're a whore?" Natasha shrugged, because it somehow didn't sound like a slur from his lips. Just a fact, flat and sad, like everything else around them.

"It's something like that," she mumbled, and he nodded.

"M'landlord wouldn't let me stay. Wanted rent some more and some more and some more, even when I told him I didn't have no job, and when I said what he was doing weren't right, collectin' rent weeks before it were due. Then he went and set some a his thugs on me, say I don't know _grateful_ unless it come and sock me in the face. So I come here, wait for something better."

Natasha pursed her lips and looked away from him.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and he laughed. It sounded just as melancholy as the day before.

"Nothing to be sorry over, you didn't get me fired, or hit none. You just sittin' here, waitin' for something better, like me. That's all we doing, waitin', sittin' here and tryin' to find something better."

He gave her another sad smile, and started humming a song. Softly, so as to not disrupt the other people in the car, a song meant only for himself. Natasha thought it was the saddest and prettiest thing she had ever heard.

When she got off the second train, she decided to kill time in some museums. They were all free, they were warm, they had no eyes for something so pathetic when full of things so great. Natasha started in the Guggenheim (not her favorite), then to the Met (so pretty that she felt very out of place), and even down all the way to the Museum of Modern Art (not the same, but still nice). She wandered every floor, searched through every room. She took breaks in the bathrooms, cleaning herself up and making it look like she had a home to take care of herself, and took embarrassingly long drinks from the fountains.

Then it was dark. And then she was in another bar. She had two customers, that night. One was younger, so nervous that he could hardly even stand to see her take her shirt off. She didn't push him, just held him tight and silently promised that things were going to be okay.

**things do not get easier.**

Natasha spent four more days that way. In the day, she explored the city and tried not to think. At night, she got her cash and told herself it was so she could buy her way into something better. She didn't have to go through with it, she didn't have to do what she had been dreading all week, she could go buy a motel room for herself and herself alone, she could search for a job that she couldn't get arrested for, she could pull herself up and not look back and forget the ugly things that had scarred her soul. She could do it.

She could, and _yet._

Despite her suspension between lives, Natasha found some things to look forward to. The subway trains had become her allies, and the homeless man, her friend. His name was Devon. He liked to whistle through the gap in his teeth, but he knew it was far too loud for his midnight rides on the train car. It hurt her to think that the kindest person she had met had nothing but a bright red had and worn smile to his name.

"I might not be here tomorrow," Natasha found herself telling him one night, after the number two had just made its last stop in Manhattan, and was now whizzing along to the Bronx. Devon looked over at her, quiet for a long moment.

"You gonna kill yourself?" His voice was heavy, which was strange, because she now knew he liked to smile.

"No," she whispered, curling into her chair, because this was it, this was where she made a choice and she decided where she was going, this was where she got off subway and stopped letting them take her nowhere. This was where she aimed her feet, instead of just letting them wander.

Then the words, "I'm going back to my pimp," slipped from her lips, breaking the last little bit of illusion Natasha was holding on to so hard. She pulled in on herself a little bit more, though she wasn't sure if it was to hide from her own condemnation, or the look in Devon's eyes.

Devon gave a slow nod, and looked down at his hands. He didn't say anything to her.

They both stayed on until the last stop in the Bronx, breaking Devon's rule about hiding the fact that they had been sleeping on the train. Neither one of them wanted to let it end.

When then did finally stand up, Devon reached over to her elbow, touching her for the first time.

"Good-bye, kid, you take care. It'll be different, with you gone."

"Why is that?" Natasha asked, turning to face him as the doors opened and beckoned them out.

"There ain't nobody else to talk to me on here," he said with his usual smile. Natasha watched him for a long, long moment, then Natasha whispered her good-bye. They both stepped off the train, and walked in different directions.

Natasha wished she could have gone back. Going nowhere was better than going to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no i am not proud of myself but i do have reasons and i hope they were explained but if not please do talk to me.
> 
> (please recall my earlier comments about natasha not yet being out of the boarding house mentally)


	17. the things we give away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a despicable human being.
> 
> BUT I HAVE REASONS

"Seven Devils"

Holy water cannot help you now  
See I've come to burn your kingdom down  
And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out  
I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out

Seven devils all around me  
Seven devils in my house  
See they were there when I woke up this morning  
I'll be dead before the day is done

Florence + the Machine

* * *

**when she goes through the front door, one of the girls is there.**

Natasha focused on her breath puffing up before her, rather than where she was walking. She thought about how opaque the steam was, how pretty, in a strange, abstracted way. She thought about how, maybe, she might have a real bed at the end of the day.

After she had gotten off the train, Natasha had cleaned herself up in a public restroom, changed into a new pair of clothes, bought breakfast. Then she got on another train, got off, and started walking. Now she was almost there.

The boarding house looked big and sad, but it still managed to blot out the surly sky when she paused before it. The wind tugged at the door and made it hard for her to pull it open, as if the world was suddenly taking notice of her, and trying to save her just a little more heartache. Then the door was closing behind her, locking her inside with all of the animals.

"What're you doing here?" someone asked, and she glanced around, surprised to find someone in the lobby. Usually it was empty, this early in the day. But sure enough, there was a girl there, lounging against a wall. Natasha ignored her, and kept walking.

" _Hey,_ I asked you what you're doing here! You know you're not allowed back."

The girl was following her, now, and grabbed her arm. Her raised voice caught the attention of a few people in the halls, and soon enough there were faces appearing in the stairwell, eager for the next show.

"I want to speak to the Landlord."

"You _high_ or somethin'? You go out and start getting high, because that's a crazy thing to say, and you know it, Russian girl."

The people on the stairs were whispering now, calling for more people, criticizing her, commenting on what they thought would happen next. Natasha worked her jaw, then _looked_ at the girl. She let go, but she didn't step back.

"You're gonna get it!" someone jeered from the stairs, scared and eager, all at once. Natasha turned to face forward, ignoring the sudden downpour of insults, because their words meant _nothing._ There had been a time when the whispers and hisses following her in the halls hurt, sinking into her back and peeling her open for the next attack. A pair of blue eyes and several long nights on the train had cured her of that, though.

Then Natasha noticed that someone was pushing their way down through the crowd, coming to face her. She watched them, entirely unsurprised to find that it was Alexandria. She had a bruise on her shoulder, and a jagged pride in her eyes.

"What, you come back for more? City wasn't bad enough? You know what he's gonna do to you, right?" she asked, all confidence and mighty, mighty words. Natasha gave her one of her coldest stares.

"I said I want to speak with the Landlord."

"You don't belong here, _Natasha._ He kicked you out, remember, he left you to the _streets,"_ Alexandria snarled. Natasha watched her for a moment, then turned her eyes up toward the growing crowd, searching for the Landlord.

"Not so high and mighty now, though, are you? Prissy little Russian girl, too good for everyone here, forced to open her legs up for anyone that throws a few bills at her feet. Or did you even _get_ paid while you were out, did you just sleep with them to get some place out of the cold?"

Natasha turned her eyes back to Alexandria then, and suddenly she could _taste_ the ice on her tongue, harsh and bitter and the only thing that had kept her alive. She snapped out and grabbed Alexandria by the hair, yanking her close because she was _sick_ of hearing this woman go on when she knew _nothing._

" _Alexandria_ ," she hissed, and it was both deathly quiet, and loud enough for seemingly the whole world to hear, "stop talking. I don't care what a stupid little whore like you has to say, get it? I'm here because I have _nothing_ left to lose _._ _Don't_ push me."

She let go of the other woman's hair, more of a shove than anything, and the room was left silent. At first, Natasha thought it was because they all had seen the blind, desperate _depravity_ in her eyes and her voice and her shoulders, but then she saw the people parting. The Landlord was walking down a staircase, watching her with lazy, lazy eyes.

"Get outta here," he said, tone almost mild. Natasha almost flinched at the sound of his voice, thinking he was speaking to her, but then he cast a harsh glance at the people behind him, and they began to melt away. Alexandria watched him, eyes wary as he came closer. She clearly wanted to protest Natasha's being there, her words almost physical as they clawed at her lips. She glared back at Natasha, and Natasha's eyes found the bruise on her shoulder again, mostly hidden by her shirt. Alexandria suppressed her own flinch, and seemed to reconsider.

She edged past the Landlord without a word, but slapped Natasha with a _filthy_ look as she disappeared at the top of the staircase.

"Natasha," he said, like he was a little surprised to see her so soon. " _Natasha_ , where have you been?"

She didn't answer, because it wasn't really meant to be responded to. She instead watched him, because she had almost forgotten what this monster looked like, but now he was prowling before her, leisurely searching for a moment to sink his fangs into her skin.

"Didn't think you'd come on back," he continued. "Most girls, they woulda stayed far away after what happened."

"I need work. I need something concrete," she said, a poisonous little confession only he could steal from her throat.

**he lets her back, for some reason.**

The Landlord laughed at that, tipped his head back and let out something near a guffaw. Natasha tried not to shrink back at the sound of it. He put his hands on his hips, giving her a smile that said he was _so pleased._

"See, now what did I tell you? What did I say, this place needs order. _People_ need order, _you_ need order. I know, I know, it all seems like a slice a pie from the outside, a little trick any ole person can pull off, but it takes real _thought_ to make it work. It's not the same, out there, is it?"

"No," she whispered, because _this_ she was supposed to say.

The Landlord stepped a little closer, but Natasha stared ahead, because if she looked at him she would pull back, and because she was not a person just then, she was a thing, she was a piece of work that was to be examined and graded for consumption.

"I—I have money," she said, despising the tremor in her voice. "To make up for some of the lost days. I have—I have money."

His eyes still held a frigidity that she almost envied, if she wasn't absolutely nauseous from anxiety. Natasha chewed on her cheek, knowing what he wanted, and hating herself for how easily she complied.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, dropping her eyes to the floor. Her shoes looked so pathetic next to his. "I'm sorry for what I did, I shouldn't have—I won't do it again."

"I should hope not. And I'm glad you brought some cash back. At least you have some sort of idea 'bout what a pain this all was for me. How much?"

Natasha picked through her bag, and hurriedly handed him the handful of bills. Her bag seemed so much heavier without them.

She watched as he counted them, flicking his eyes over the numbers, then leaning back on his heels when he was done to keep watching her.

"Why you come back?" he asked, the words soft and almost considerate. "Why didn't you go find some other place, why here?"

"I know how you work," she said, voice flat, flat, flat. "I know what the system is, I know what I'm supposed to do. I know where I belong."

"And that is?"

"At the bottom. I work my way up, like everyone else."

The Landlord laughed again, but this time, it didn't have the unstable edge she hadn't even noticed, first time around.

"That's good. But, please, cut yourself some slack. You won't be at the _bottom_ , I got a li'l grace left in these bones. I still remember how good you are, what all you've done for me. You won't be at the _top,_ hell no, but you won't be like any normal girl walkin' in off the streets."

Natasha looked at him then, almost too afraid to think the words running through her. The Landlord gave a big, easy smile, and nodded.

"Yeah, you can come back. Yer a fighter, Natasha, I'd like to see just where it is you end up."

**she's never been so thankful and heartbroken at the same time.**

Natasha nodded at him, and gave a thin smile. The feeling slicing at her throat could have almost been called regret.

" _But,_ " he said, and Natasha thought she might choke, "we've got some new rules, a new condition, you an' I, after what happened last time. You can only stay if you sleep with who I want, when I want, and how I want. Got it? None a this funny business from before."

Natasha nodded again, and said, "Of course." The Landlord must have seen the part where she thought herself a fool, and completely out of options on her face, because he laughed.

"I don't really care what else you get up to. Do whatever, it's fine, it's fine, s'long as you just do yer job. And don't kill none a the other girls, alright? Alexandria in particular, she's gonna be in all sorts of a tizzy over this, but just don't leave me a body t'deal with, alright?"

"I can do that," Natasha said, and she nearly fell down on her knees in gratitude, because at least she would be able to defend herself against so many enemies.

When Natasha walked back to her a room a few minutes later, it was to find that it was largely untouched from her last night in it. The bed was still there, and most of its myriad of pillows and blankets. The vanity was still in place, the hangers in the closet, the night stand by the bed. Her rug was gone, though, as well as the curtains.

She set her bag down on the vanity, and surveyed her room more fully. The bag felt weirdly out of place, something that had seen her sorrow, but a vastly different kind from the type she had spilled all over the room. But that didn't matter.

She had a _bed._ And a shower.

Natasha silently thumbed through her things, picking out clothes and toiletries from the set that had been left behind. She carried them with her to the bathroom, and locked the door behind her. She didn't see her hands work as they turned on the water and pulled off her clothes, she just blinked and found herself beneath the water, its heat tearing at her skin.

She didn't cry. She was too cold, from the windy Manhattan streets and the long, jittery train rides through the night.

Natasha finished her shower, dried off, changed, and then trailed back to her room. No one stopped her, no one spoke to her, no one looked at her. She had broken a trend, changed the rules, shoved her way into strange, unknown territory. Natasha tried not to think about it.

To her surprise, however, there was someone on her bed when she returned to her room. Gracia, small and worried and painfully relieved when she saw that, _yes_ , Natasha had truly returned. She didn't hesitate to launch up and fling herself at Natasha's waist, English and Spanish and tears all staining her shirt. Natasha closed her eyes, and set a hand on the little girl's head.

"Are you okay?" she asked, once she had ushered the little girl back onto the bed. Gracia nodded, smearing some of the tears away from her cheeks.

"Mm, Rae was nice, she took care of me, made sure I got food. Alexandria was _awful,_ she's been mean to everyone since you were gone. Doesn't help that the Landlord—he's not been very nice, either."

Natasha swallowed, glad for a moment that his wrath had been spent elsewhere before she had come, and then feeling so, so guilty, because some of it had probably spilled out onto Gracia, as well.

"But now you're back," Gracia said, but it sounded more like _why_?

"Yes."

They were quiet for a long moment, huddled together in Natasha's nest of a bed. It was too dark for her to see Gracia's face, but Natasha searched for it anyway, trying to understand the tightness in her smiles (well, she _did_ understand it, she was just trying to find a different meaning she knew wouldn't be there).

"Was it bad?" Gracia asked, whispering the words into Natasha's ear, like she was afraid of the answer.

"Not all of it," Natasha said, remembering Devon's smile, and the smell of pancakes while in a warm bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, guys. I know. But remember-we've found the yellow brick road, things will get better.


	18. let me lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody give Natasha a hug, whether she wants it or not.
> 
> Another shorter chapter, but I promise, we're amping up to something big ;)

"Love, You're a Whore"

Was a bright, and sweet, and hot summer day  
The day I didn't love you anymore  
Couldn't see your face  
Couldn't taste your taste  
Couldn't hallucinate your embrace  
All had vanished without a trace

Love, love, love  
You're a whore  
You're a whore  
You're a whore  
Love, love, love, love  
'Cause we bruise you and abuse you  
But time after time  
You take us back  
And kiss us hard on the mouth

Regina Spektor

* * *

**days go by, and nights go by, and it all becomes a blur. she can tell she's losing a bit of herself, every time.**

Natasha fell back into her old routine. At night, she went out, in the day, she dragged herself around as she waited for it to become night again. A part of her whispered that this was not a way to live, but that was also the part that had hurt her so, so much. In response, Natasha developed the habit of ignoring it completely.

No one in the boarding house challenged her after the Landlord let her back in. His seal was on her lips, branding her, saving her. There were no cat calls, no petty tricks, not even a whisper trailing after her feet as she walked down the hallway. There was just nothing.

The girls of the boarding house had devised an even crueler form of punishment—they ignored her. She didn't care. She was alone, the outcast, the person that had broken _all_ of their rules. She wondered if it was just because the other girls weren't sure how to deal with her, but then she laughed at herself, because this wasn't the haphazard result of doubt or confusion. A silence laden with frost hung around Natasha. She didn't know if it was because the ice inside of her chest was bleeding out, or if the others were just taking a note out of her book, but it didn't matter. Thinking about things, thinking about what other people _felt—_

Natasha may have been so frightfully ignorant at times, but she was not stupid. She learned from her mistakes, even if she sometimes had to bleed first.

The only people that did not completely ignore her were Gracia and Rae. Natasha had been a little surprised by the other woman meeting her eye and actually speaking to her, about a day after she had been taken back. Someone as nervous as Rae normally wouldn't have been caught dead in the same hallway as Natasha, but then, she was slowly losing that timid, fidgety aspect. When Natasha thought about how Rae had purposefully went out to find her when the Landlord tried to burn her sticky notes, and put a protective arm around Gracia when no one else would bother to help, it made perfect sense. She was just left to wonder how Rae had managed to evolve so beautifully, when she…when she had not.

Gracia, of course, clung to Natasha's side. There wasn't much said on the matter, but the little girl moved in with Natasha. They slept in the same bed, shared what food they could scrounge up, and guarded themselves against the world together. And, of course, Gracia was there when those hard little truths slipped from Natasha's lips. She was largely silent when Natasha whispered about how the city wind blew icy cold in the middle of the day, the way the smell of bagels and sandwiches and coffee teased her inside when she walked through Manhattan, the feel of the subway as it rocked her to sleep. She asked a question here or there, trying to piece together what Natasha had done in those days she had been away from the boarding house, trying to figure out why she had come back. Natasha told her everything, bit by bit, except for what had happened in that brutal first day away. Gracia asked, casually, like Natasha might not notice, but she never got a word.

Natasha couldn't let the story about pancakes, warm beds, and a muddy footprint on the carpet go, because it wasn't really just that one story. It was dozens of stories, all mixed up with sticky notes and casual conversations and his casual manhandling of what society expected him to do. Natasha might have been able to explain just one, but not all of them, not every single account of how he had lured her in and tricked her so, so well.

So she stayed silent, and let it stay a mystery, and shared everything else with the little girl. Gracia did not push, and Natasha did not give. It worked.

But Natasha thought about it, she thought about all of those little seconds every day, his smile and his sad, tired eyes and his gentle touch. She hated herself for it.

The one thing that stayed the exact same, though, was the work. Every night, she went out like she was supposed to, sauntered the streets and got into cars and went to the regulars the Landlord ordered. With every hour that passed, with every dollar bill gained, Natasha felt a little fragment of her soul slip away. Even that had changed, though. It felt more a resigned flaking off, rather than the violent shredding of before.

Maybe that was because Natasha had also stopped asking questions. She didn't educate herself on what she was doing, didn't learn just how terrible a fate she had consigned herself to. She didn't ask about what she was doing, didn't show thoughts or opinions. Natasha simply nodded when the Landlord told her where and when to go, forgetting her old need of names and faces to go with them men waiting behind the door.

**and then one day, she's told to go to a room, and she does.**

Natasha walked through the dark, her coat wrapped tight, even though the cold was her only lasting friend. Flecks of snow hit her face and neck, making her shiver as she walked to the motel. She climbed the steps up to the room, knocked on the door, shifted from foot to foot as she waited for it to open—

It was him.

It was Clint. There he was standing in the doorway, a hesitant expression on his face, like he didn't know what she was about to do next. Natasha stared at him, heat screaming through her blood, from shame, from shock, from _rage_. She was suddenly torn, unsure if she wanted to scream, or turn on her heel and just leave, or hit him, or just do all of them.

"Why are you here," she snarled. The words weren't so much a question as an order, part demand to know what he was doing there, part command to _get him away._ Clint shifted, glanced at the ground, then back at her. Like he had the _right_ to look so uncomfortable.

"I…I wanted to see you," he began, and it was just so ludicrous, so _insane_ that Natasha broke into laughter. It was harsh and brittle, and she never took her eyes off of him.

"You wanted to _see_ me?" she asked, tasting the words on her tongue and spitting them back out so he could hear how pathetic they sounded. " _You_ wanted to see me, after what you did? Why the _hell_ would you think—" She cut herself off, looking away because she could _not_ say the words.

"I know," he said quietly, head bent in shame, but still meeting her eyes. "I know, Natasha."

"Don't call me that," she hissed, suddenly feeling so, so cold. She was not going to let him _do_ this again, wasn't going to let him be so human and lovely and compassionate, and then tear her apart. Not again.

Clint watched her for a long moment, then cleared his throat.

"Will you come in? You don't have to, you can walk away right now, but I have money."

She snapped her eyes back to him, hating how the words fell from his tongue. _I have money._ He knew how to lure her in, he knew what her whole _world_ balanced on, and she hated it. She hated how gently he could say something so awful.

"Yeah? What're you gonna do with it?"

Clint didn't say anything, just watched her for a long while. He looked tired, but some little thing had changed. It was a physical exhaustion that she saw in his eyes, not a bone deep weariness that came from being unhappy. The thought caused a bitter twist in her stomach.

When it was clear she wasn't about to break the tense silence, he said, "Please, Natasha, come in. I just want to…you don't have to stay the whole night, you can leave whenever you want, but you'll be paid for the whole thing."

She sized him up for a long moment, then nodded.

**he looks worried when he lets her in.**

Clint held the door open for Natasha, eyes still holding that wary, hopeful look. She wanted to slap it off of his face, but she just walked in, pausing in the center of the room. She shrugged out of her coat, and tossed it onto a chair. Then it was just her and Clint, and she knew she had to look at him, but she _didn't want to_. As much as she hated to admit it, there was a considerable part of Natasha that did not want to meet his little boy blue eyes and whatever lethal emotion they might hold.

"What do you want?" she asked, voice a rugged slab of concrete.

"I wanted to talk. We should…I just want to talk."

Natasha let out another hard laugh.

"To _talk_? Clint, it has been _two months._ "

"I know," he sighed, sinking heavily into the other chair. "I know it's been…I couldn't see you. I…I wasn't ready, I knew I couldn't come see you, come talk to you. I needed to…do some things before I could come see you."

"Like _what_ ," she sighed, but she didn't want to know, didn't want to hear anything else from this man, because she no longer wanted to care about him. It would be _so_ much easier if he was nothing, not a gnarled bit of hurt, not a void, just _nothing_ to her.

Clint was silent, and it was just them breathing into the dingy silence. Natasha looked away, trying to marshal herself into something usable. She still wanted to leave, but she also wanted to look this demon in the face and throw it away, show that she was not ruined because of it.

"If you're done, I would really just like to do my job," she said, casually stabbing him in the chest with his own words. To Clint's negligible credit, he looked away, ashamed of what he had said. When he looked back, he didn't seem upset. She needed him to be upset, or angry, or _something_ other than the grating look of mild acceptance.

Just looking at him then, with his sad, patient eyes, made Natasha furious. How had he made off so well, when she had been a wreck after what he had done? She wasn't sure how he had cared for her, but she knew it had been there, and that their fight, the poisonous daggers she had sunk past his skin, they had made lasting marks. She had left him alone in his expensive, ridiculously empty house, with all of his failings and his disappointments and his losses, and she had ripped away the curtains so he was forced to see. Had that really turned out to be _nothing_?

She pushed herself toward him, hands shoving him to the back of the chair. Natasha sat on his lap like she had so many times, but now she was all angles, all vindictive fury as she pressed her mouth against his and demanded he respond. Clint seemed to act without thinking, wicked instinct or dissolute habit taking over and making his hands move. In an instant, they were on her thighs, pushing up her skirt.

Natasha kissed him for all she was worth, which she knew to not be much, but it was a potent bit of nothing. Her hands were in his hair, rough and angry from the start. Clint opened his mouth, and it the simple nature of the action seemed to neatly sum up all that Natasha felt toward him. He could do this, despite what he had done to her, despite how wretched he supposedly felt. He could put his hands up her skirt and stick his tongue in her mouth, no thoughts given at all.

"You disgust me," Natasha said into his mouth, and Clint pulled back, the words finally seeming to sting. She tried to keep kissing him, to push him farther, make him even worse, to show that he was _not_ worth all that she had curled up inside for him. But he turned his head away, licked his lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and Natasha really didn't know why. She just sat there, staring at him as he carefully pulled his hands away from her, drawing himself back away from all that she offered.

**he doesn't fight back, but he also doesn't let her rest.**

It took a few moments, but Natasha slipped off his lap. She had taken her clothes off for him, but she had never felt quite so naked. Natasha was just considering leaving, returning to the boarding house with her poisoned money and her poisoned mouth, ready to curl up in her nest of a bed and cry and scream inside her head until she could not think about _him_ anymore. But then Clint straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then hesitantly got to his feet.

"I, uh, I'm gonna…gonna go to bed. If you want…" he trailed off, gesturing weakly to the bed behind her. She didn't take her eyes away from him.

He paused, then edged toward the bed, but Natasha kept her eyes fixed on that one point, staring past him and then just glaring at a spot on the wall. She thought about leaving again, thought about going back into the open arms of the cold, of running back to her usual misery.

Natasha hated herself for it, but she went and sat down on the empty side of the bed, worked her shoes off, and then laid down. Clint didn't face her, finally the one to turn his face away, to hide from her. Natasha turned her head to look at him, glaring at the back of his skull, hating him, hating the way he was so determined not to push her, hating that she _still_ cared about what he thought.

Most of all, Natasha hated how perfect it felt, listening to him breathe beside her.

They were both completely dressed, laying side by side. Natasha despised every second of it. This was not how things were supposed to go, this was not what she was allowed. Natasha had learned the hard way; precious little moments like these did not exist for her.

Perhaps the thing that Natasha disliked most of all was that she _knew_ this. But she found herself indulging in it, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter has a bit of resolution, a promise of better things. Not quite the ideal, but it's a bit more than she had before.


	19. come, if you dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh there are just a lot of feelings about this chapter, and some are good and some are bad. I kind of like how it turned out, though, so I suppose the mix of good and bad is very fitting for the story.
> 
> Positive change for Natasha is just so close I can taste it.
> 
> This is one of the last times I will have a scene that necessitates putting a warning at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> Warnings: a brief scene of domestic abuse, allusions to child prostitution and abuse

"Lover, You Should've Come Over"

Lonely is the room, the bed is made,  
The open window lets the rain in  
Burning in the corner is the only one  
Who dreams he had you with him,  
My body turns and yearns for a sleep that will never come

Sometimes a man, he gets carried away,  
When he feels like he should be having his fun  
And he's much too blind to see the damage he's done  
Cause sometimes a man must awake  
To find that really he has no one

So I'll wait for you and I'll burn  
Will I ever see your sweet return  
Oh will I ever learn

Oh lover, you should've come over  
'Cause it's not too late  
'Cause it's not too late

Jamie Cullum

* * *

**in the morning, she wakes up first.**

Natasha cracked her eyes open to look at the ceiling. She could feel Clint beside her, breath soft in sleep. She had never thought she would be there again. Things had been finished, and then…

And then they had started right back up, like nothing had happened at all. The memory of the night before jumped back up at her, the way Clint had looked so sorry, and sounded so sad, but acted just the same. He had called her, toyed with her using promises of money and understanding, kissed her with the same reckless abandon as before.

Worst of all, _Natasha_ had done the exact same. She had obediently followed him to bed, submitted to his whims and was once more playing the waiting game, grabbing up all the time she could before he woke up and left her alone. Natasha closed her eyes.

Natasha waited for a few moments, then rolled over to look at Clint. He was passive in sleep, hiding all of the sorrow he had and the hurt he could give when awake. His hair was messy, his shirt rumpled, and he looked like a man on the edge of everything he had known. But then Natasha recalled the wholeness in his eyes from the night before, and knew that he was much better off than she was.

He shifted, and Natasha tensed, worried he might wake up and finally catch her. But no, he just rolled onto his side, his hand tucking itself beneath her pillow. She lay frozen, almost certain she could feel his warmth through the pillow. Natasha closed her eyes again, and let out a slow breath.

He had hurt her. He had slid his way into her chest and took her heart in his hand and then punctured it, leaving it to bleed. He was not a man to trust.

A short while later, Clint woke up. He pulled his hand from underneath her pillow, and slowly sat up. She continued her charade of sleep, somehow still afraid of him kicking her out.

Clint got out of bed, and moved to the bathroom. She heard him turn on the tap, possibly to wash his face, then it switched back off. He walked back into the room, and then was shuffling with his shoes. He fell silent, and Natasha was convinced he was watching her, quietly taking in her fully clothed shape on the bed. She waited, wondering what he would do, what he would say.

Natasha had to force herself not to frown when she heard him open the door. He closed it behind him, and then Natasha was left alone. She knew he was gone, could feel the emptiness hanging in the room, but she still took the precaution of scanning the room through her lashes.

She sat up, bracing herself with her arm. She could feel the left over heat from his hand beneath her pillow.

Natasha pursed her lips and ran her hands through her hair. For some _stupid_ reason, she felt a lump in her throat, like she wanted to cry. This was what she had wanted, but it also turned out to be what she despised.

Distance always hurt with him, and Natasha was tired of hurting.

She pulled on her shoes and then stood up. She walked to her coat, checked the bills he had left beside it, then put them into her pocket. Natasha found herself glancing around the room before she knew why.

She was looking for a sticky note. Natasha scowled at herself and turned to the door, spurning the little ritual Clint had set up. Then she paused, and scanned the room again.

He hadn't left one.

She worked her jaw, hand on the door knob, and then left the room as well. Natasha didn't want to think what this sudden change meant.

**it continues to go like this. days skip by, and then he calls for her.**

Natasha was once again cast into a waiting game with Clint. She resented every moment, dread curling up in her stomach until she saw him on the other side of the motel room door. It was like the early days again, where he would disappear from her life for ages at a time, and then pop back up. Natasha wanted to say that he acted like nothing happened, wanted to say that he was a selfish, inconsiderate monster that only cared for himself, but it was now painfully obvious that this was not the case.

Clint was careful with her, now. Gone was the coldness in his blue eyes, the thing that held his secrets so close, and then had flung horrid truths into her heart. And while it sometimes felt like he cuffed her over the head with his clear, blue gaze, or slapped her with clear, regrettably sincere words, Clint never hurt her. He never sank into the brutality that she craved to thoroughly chase her away. He never became angry with her, never tried to deny that what he had done was _wrong_ , never tried to touch.

It was infuriating. It would be so much better if he slammed her against a wall the moment she walked in, if he spared the conversation, the understanding, the patience, the _I'm sorry's_. If he stopped caring, Natasha could stop thinking about him, whether to love or hate, and make him _nothing._

Of course, Natasha tested him. She offered her devil's fruit, she dressed in her most seductive clothing, breathing promises onto his skin, came so, so close. She was there on a platter, and she _dared_ him to feast.

He did not.

Clint watched her with eyes that saw too much, saw how hard she was trying to destroy him, and he did not seem to mind. That vague amusement from the earlier days was back, the black chuckles over the both of them acknowledging the terrible nature of their meetings, but it wasn't the ironic thing done between kisses and the shedding of clothing. He would lean against a wall or sit in a chair, and quietly comment on it, like he had any sort of right to be so casual with her.

"Why do you even bother bringing me here, if you're not going to use me," she asked one time, lounging against the head board. It was about their third time meeting, and she had finally stopped being angry enough to snarl at him every time he moved.

Clint was sitting on the side of the bed, fiddling with his watch. He gave a mild huff of a laugh, but didn't look at her when he spoke.

"I told you, I want to talk."

"I'm not paid to talk," she said, words hard but not hostile. She looked at the ceiling, and sighed, "Besides, we've talked."

"We've _said words,_ " Clint laughed, finally turning to face her. "But I don't think that's really talking."

There was a pause, and Natasha pointedly turned her head to look at the other side of the room.

"Besides," he mimicked her, "I only want you to talk, so…not much else to come here for."

Clint was quiet for a moment, and she could feel him peeling back a few more layers of her, searching for answers.

"What _do_ you come here for? You can stop coming whenever you want."

"No, I can't," she said quietly. By the quality of the silence following her statement, she knew that Clint was wise enough to understand that he was not the reason.

She could feel more questions chasing themselves around on his tongue, but he kept them in check, and did not push. Natasha sighed through her nose, and looked over at him.

"Why did you come back?" she asked, despising the lump that formed in her throat. This time, there wasn't any accusation in her voice, but there wasn't much room for his answer, either. "There really…there isn't much for us to say."

"But there is for me," he told her. Natasha watched him for a long moment, then fixed her gaze on the door.

"Then say it."

Clint just smiled, and looked back at his watch.

**when he does not call, things are still difficult.**

The truly wretched thing about it all, was that as much as she hated having to be in a room with Clint, it was still a respite. The Landlord had let her back in, but it was so clear that Natasha was not forgiven.

Gracia, a weapon of vicious casualty, was used with brutal efficiency by the Landlord. Natasha knew that the little girl worked like every other tenant for the Landlord, but when she started noticing the dullness in the little girl's eyes, she wanted to choke.

She couldn't say anything. She had forfeited her right to have a say in any matter when she had gotten into the Landlord's bad books. Natasha was forced to watch as his door closed behind the little girl's too straight shoulders, as she heard from Rae that it was the third time that week that she had been sent into the _really_ bad parts of town, as she already was being loaned out to regular customers. The ice lacing her ribs pushed away Natasha's anger, and let her stay awake as she waited for Gracia to come back to her room, and offer an illicit piece of candy and a hug to chase away the dregs of the child's nightmare.

Rae, too, received some of the punishment. She was targeted more and more by the other girls, hissed words of _'who said you could hang around the Russian girl'_ clinging to her heels. Natasha wanted to say something, wanted to tell the girl to leave her be when her room was wrecked, when she was locked out of the bathroom, when someone put garbage in her bed. But the iron straight set to her spine reminded Natasha of how she herself had looked a few months ago, and the bitter words of warning to her offenders were a promise that Rae could take care of herself.

Natasha might have been convinced, had Rae's jitters not turned from being a side effect of nerves to another beast entirely. Still, she managed through the days, and the nights, and she remained just as sweet to Natasha and Gracia as before. There wasn't much Natasha could do if the woman wanted to take the edge off of things, so Natasha just squeezed the girl's hand in thanks, and let the matter be. Until, one day, Rae's legs had given way and tumbled her straight into Alexandria's path.

"What, too good to look me in the eye?" the woman was practically shrieking, grabbing Rae's shoulder and trying to jerk her into eye contact. But Rae's eyes were out of focus, and her hands were shaking, and she didn't seem able to stand straight. "You think that just because you talk to the Russian bitch, you think you're better than all of us? You think that, just because _she_ was allowed back in, you'll be able to leech off her status?"

"No, I—I— _Alexandria,_ " Rae laughed, waving her hands between them in a stupid, intoxicated manner. Alexandria slapped Rae, making the younger girl gasp. People were watching now, peeping out of doorways and from the end of the hall.

"Don't you _dare_ laugh at me," she hissed, grabbing Rae's face and making her look at her again. "I'm not some _joke,_ if you hadn't noticed, I'm now the top girl here. And I'm not the cold bitch that _Natasha_ was, I actually—"

"No, you're not cold. But you've got the second part right," Natasha said, appearing on the stairs. Both girls snapped their heads around to stare at her, Alexandria looking unstable, Rae like she had no balance. She was sagging against the stair rail, Alexandria's grip on her face about the only thing keeping her upright.

"This doesn't _concern_ you."

"If you're trying to give her shit for being around me, then I suppose it does."

"What're you going to do?" Alexandria sneered, letting go of Rae, who wisely stumbled away and sought shelter in another girl's room. "You don't have any sway here."

"Don't need it. Leave Rae alone. It's not going to earn you anything with the Landlord if you break one of his girls."

"Shut up. Like _you_ know _anything_ about gaining favor with him."

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

Alexandria shrieked and threw herself at Natasha. Natasha grit her teeth when she felt Alexandria's acrylic nails dig into her face. She grabbed the other woman's hair and shoved her back, trying to gain herself time to brace for the fight. Alexandria was about to take another swipe when suddenly someone was shoving her against the wall.

Dread filled both women when they realized that the Landlord had materialized between them. Alexandria let out a pained sound when she hit the wall, and Natasha braced herself against the rail. She hadn't had an incident with the Landlord since she had come back, she had been good, she had been _good,_ she didn't want to get in trouble. Natasha glanced at the stairs behind her, and edged away from them.

"The _hell_ is goin' on here?!" the Landlord yelled, and the hallway suddenly seemed barren. Once everyone realized he was there, they had vanished. "You think I let you stay here so you can have a bitch fight in the halls? _That's_ how you repay me?"

"I didn't—we weren't meaning to—it wasn't like that," Alexandria gasped, scrabbling for words. The Landlord slammed her against the wall again, and she fell silent when the back of her head cracked against the wall.

"I didn't _ask_ for piss poor excuses," he snarled, roughly letting go of her shirt. "And _you_ , the hell you think you're goin'?"

Natasha froze, then whipped around to face him. Her hands were still white knuckled on the stair rail, holding her up against this giant. She was still trying to put as much space between her and the stairs, not wanting to be knocked down them like too many other girls had been. She bit the insides of her cheeks when she realized that it looked like she was trying to run away, to escape her due punishment.

"I asked, _where are you going?"_ he yelled at her, and Natasha flinched.

"N-nowhere, I wasn't trying to—"

The Landlord slapped her, and Natasha barely resisted the urge to sink to the floor as the other side of her face started stinging as well.

"I let you back in here because I felt _pity_ for you," he snarled, suddenly in her face. "I _let_ you come back, and I will _not_ let you ruin this for everyone else. _Do you understand_?" he yelled. He was emphasizing his words with a finger being jabbed at her, and Natasha could not stifle the fear that it would suddenly turn to a fist.

"I understand, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_ ," she whispered, the words hardly able to come out past the urge to cry and the terror to do so.

He whirled back to Alexandria, and grabbed her shoulder.

"Downstairs, now!" he barked, shoving her down the hall. Alexandria's steps stuttered. The Landlord's room was downstairs. She kept moving.

She looked back at the Landlord, checking, hoping, _pleading_ that she was wrong. But he had turned back to Natasha, allowing the girl no chance. Her eyes skated to Natasha's for a bare moment, but there was none of the venom from before, no blame that Natasha had gotten her in trouble. There was just the same stark fear Natasha had collapsing her chest.

"Thin ice, Natasha. Don't you _dare_ try this shit again."

She nodded hurriedly, urging him away, wishing him to step back with her compliance. He glared at her, then turned to the steps. He stalked down them after Alexandria.

Natasha turned back to her room, using the walls to help her there when her legs refused to hold her properly. Gracia was there, ignoring her own bruises as she wrapped her arms around Natasha's middle when she started sobbing into her blankets.

**at the end of it all, he is there waiting for her.**

Clint did not ask about the scratches on her face when she walked in. He did not hide the grimace on his face, but he did not ask. In a perverse way, she was thankful.

"What," she spat when he continued to say nothing. She dropped onto the bed, refusing to look at him. She suddenly wished that the weather hadn't warmed up, so she would have the excuse to busy herself with a coat.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and she shot him a _filthy_ look. He worked his jaw, but kept her gaze. She glanced away, not wanting to show him any more tears.

Clint sat down in a chair, and braced his forehead against his hand.

"Why did you come back?" she asked softly. Clint closed his eyes and sighed. She half expected some petulant answer, like ' _I already told you,'_ but he just stayed quiet. Natasha gave a sigh of her own, and stared at the floor. Her shoes were disgusting.

"I thought…" he began, trying to find the words, "…I thought I could do something different. Maybe this time…maybe I wouldn't ruin it so bad."

Natasha looked at him, because this was the first time he had just come out and said it. He had apologized for hurting her every time she had reminded him, but he had never openly said ' _this is all my fault'._ She felt something inside of her deflate, because that was a sort of caring she had never expected to come from his lips again.

"I…I was a pretty shitty person when we met," he said. It wasn't an excuse, or a justification. It was a fact, but it felt a lot more like a story. "And I didn't really want to acknowledge it, I didn't want to…I couldn't…I couldn't be anything but that. So when you came to my place…"

He sighed again, and opened his eyes.

"I didn't…I couldn't…it wasn't a good idea, then."

Natasha didn't say anything, just stared at him with a tight expression that even she didn't understand. Clint gave a wan smile, and said, "I wish I was better."

Natasha looked away.

After a long pause, Natasha got to her feet. She could feel Clint's gaze on her as she walked across the chasm between them. His eyes were blue and uncertain as she stopped before him. Natasha took a breath, feeling Alexandria's nails on her cheek, and the Landlord's anger pummeling her chest.

Neither one of them said a word as she sat on his lap, and cradled his head in her arms. Except, Clint wrapped his arms around her waist, and let out a hitched sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very happy that Clint and Natasha were finally able to have a serious conversation without pride or anger getting in the way. It's not really quite enough to put things completely behind them, but I feel like that's something that is a much slower healing process, one that needs to come in bits and pieces as they learn to truly trust each other again.
> 
> Also, I would like to draw some attention to Clint's decision to not leave sticky notes; setting aside this departure from How Things Were Before, the sticky notes were good-byes between them. By not leaving them, Clint is effectively saying that he is no longer leaving Natasha's life :)


	20. come hither, angel wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel that it is very apt that we have a mild change of pace for chapter twenty.
> 
> (holy crap wE'RE AT CHAPTER TWENTY)
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you all for sticking with me this far, I so deeply appreciate it, you don't even understand. And, of course, thank you to the darling red_b_rackham and the lovely Shazrolane for offering their beta services! We'd be in a very different place in terms of quality without them ;)

"All This And Heaven Too"

And the heart is hard to translate  
It has a language of its own  
It talks in tongues and quiet sighs,  
And prayers and proclamations  
In the grand days of great men and the smallest of gestures  
And short shallow gasps

And I would give all this and heaven too  
I would give it all if only for a moment  
That I could just understand the meaning of the word you see  
'Cause I've been scrawling it forever but it  
Never makes sense to me at all

All this heaven never could describe  
Such a feeling as I'm hearing  
Words were never so useful  
So I was screaming out a language that I  
Never knew existed before

Florence + the Machine

* * *

**it is a terrible game she plays, but on she goes.**

A tight, uncomfortable feeling lingered in Natasha's chest these days. A part of her had breathed _do not_ as she walked over to Clint and held him close, but she had felt so tired, on the edge of too much to care. Just for a moment, for one tiny, inconsequential moment, she wanted to be held by someone who wasn't marred by the boarding house's rot, wanted to feel… _something_ , other than the cold and the fear and the pain.

Holding Clint hadn't hurt. Feeling him shudder out a breath against her stomach hadn't hurt. Listening to Clint get up in the morning and walk out the door had hurt.

But she couldn't acknowledge that. Because Natasha had committed herself to this, she had bond herself to this perverse existence when she had stormed out of his house and decided to sleep on subway trains, when she had crawled back to the Landlord and virtually said ' _I'm sorry please let me in please you can hurt me again just let me have my bed back'._ She couldn't stand letting everything go, not again.

So on she went. She walked street corners, climbed into strange cars, dragged herself back to the boarding house when the sky brightened to a dish water grey. She did her job, like she did not have a secret beating in her pocket.

Gracia noticed. The little girl gave her hard looks sometimes, like she was searching for something in Natasha's face. When Natasha asked about it, Gracia just shook her head.

"I don't know what it is," she said, still frowning. "I don't know what's making your face do that."

"Do what?"

Gracia pointed to her face. The frown was still there.

"You don't do this anymore."

"What? Yes I do."

"Nope," she said, shrugging and looking back to the shoes she was trying to repair. "Not any more. Now, it's just…"

Gracia trailed off. Natasha tried not to think about how that was answer enough.

If Clint noticed the same change, he didn't say anything. He wasn't _oblivious_ , Natasha had noticed the tight smile on his face when she breezed in the next time, and did not look at him twice. He was simply continuing with his new mantra of not interfering, and instead allowing Natasha to hang herself.

The thought tasted sour on Natasha's tongue (but not as sour as the thought of being alone.)

**she realizes that she doesn't hate him, doesn't mind that he didn't treat her like something meant to be used. she does not know what to think.**

"Why do you keep buying me?" Natasha asked. They were both laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Clint gave a huff of laughter.

"Would you believe me if I said I liked seeing you?"

"No."

"And if I said it was out of habit?"

It was Natasha's turn to laugh, but she didn't disagree.

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's been months," she whispered. "I would have thought you would have become bored."

"You're not something I'm just gonna get _bored_ with, Natasha."

She turned her head to look at him, silently pointing out that, technically, he _had_ done just that. Clint caught her gaze, and gave a deprecating smile to say he understood.

Clint turned his eyes back to the ceiling. Natasha kept her eyes on him, and this time, without the heat of anger tearing through her skin, she saw a man who was trying, even though he had come to her with nothing in his hands. Except, she never had expected him _to_ come.

"Why did you come back?" she whispered.

"I already answered this, remember?" he asked, a black smile on his lips. Natasha didn't turn away.

Clint closed his eyes.

"I didn't want to run away anymore. I didn't…" Clint swallowed, and drew in a long breath. "I didn't want to lose you."

The words felt like a caress and a slap. There was something under what he was saying that Natasha suddenly _desperately_ wanted, but there was an edge inside her that didn't know if she could trust him. _I didn't want to lose you_. How could he _lose_ her, if he was the one that had thrown her away?

Clint sighed, and ran a face over his face, feeling her doubt.

"I told you I was a shitty person last time, and you already kind of knew that, but Natasha...at that point, I had so much shit in my life that I wasn't handling, that I couldn't have helped you. I didn't know how to care for someone, not for real. So I...so I made you leave. And I'm sorry. But I swore to myself that, as soon as I could, I would come and...try."

Natasha suddenly found herself wanting to kiss his fingers. Natasha pursed her lips to keep from gritting her teeth, because she did not like it one bit.

"Why do you keep asking?" he asked, the words soft but covering up most of the room.

"Because I don't _get it_ ," she said, words tight and strange and almost hostile. She sat up, staring at him. She didn't want this, she didn't want to be tricked by him again. The feelings that were curling up in her chest and begging her to stay were terrifying and she wanted to hold them close but also run out the door and leave them behind.

She dragged in a shaky breath, staring at Clint. Just once, she would have liked to be able to do something without feeling _dread_ clawing at her skin every damn second.

"I've asked you, and each time you tell me, but it doesn't _make sense._ We have talked, and you have done things differently, and you're not—I'm not—I don't know why I'm here! You don't touch me, and I barely speak to you like a normal human being, but you still—why're we _here_?"

The last few words were a choked gasp, all trying to flutter out of her mouth and demand answers. Natasha hardly noticed the tears forming in her eyes as the words poured out. Panic suddenly filled her when she felt them threatening to go over, because she was _not_ going to do this, she had sworn to herself in the snow and the cold and the heartache after leaving his house that she would never again cry in front of Clint. Because the last time she had, she had opened up her chest the last few inches and he had ripped out her heart.

Natasha angrily swiped the tears away with her wrist, not caring about what was happening to her makeup. Clint had propped himself up on his elbow during her rant, and now he straightened fully. He seemed torn, as if uncertain if what he wanted or his safety was more important.

"Why are we here, Clint?"

He glanced up at the ceiling, then back to her.

"I…want to help. For real, this time. I want to do something for you, with no strings, no exceptions, no downside. I just want you to be…I want you to be happy."

"And how is _that_ working out?" she laughed.

"I'm trying to work on it."

Natasha stared at him, chewing her cheek, tears on her face. She looked pathetic, she was sure. And still, Clint watched her with complete attention, like this was the most precious, important moment he had encountered yet, and he wanted to do it right.

"I hated you for _so long_ ," she whispered, a confession he had already known.

"I know. I did, too."

Natasha grabbed him into a hug, clutching onto his shoulders like he was the last thing she would ever know. She knew she was gripping too hard, was digging her fingernails into his back and her chin into his shoulder, but he had wrapped his arms around her too, holding her like he had not been able to for so, so long.

She couldn't help but sob into his ear. And yet, she didn't feel the weight that normally came with crying. Somehow, Natasha knew this was as close as she was going to get to laughing, so she wasn't going to fret too much.

The ice in her chest cracked, turning snow and dusting her insides. Once again, Clint's heat had pushed through her skin, and this time, she didn't give into it, didn't fight it, but worked with it. The thought pushed a hard laugh from her throat.

Clint's hand was in her hair, holding her tight, like she might disappear again.

"Natasha," he breathed, like speaking too loud would chase the reality away. "Natasha, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she laughed, giving him an even tighter squeeze. "Clint, it's okay, it's okay, it's _okay_."

"It's not, and you shouldn't—"

" _I forgive you,_ " she told him, pulling back and staring into his eyes. They had changed so much from the first time they had met. They weren't flippantly hiding his lies and his faults underneath charm and good looks, nor carving into her heart with frozen words and knives. They were beautiful and damaged, uncertain in the face of forgiveness, but craving it so much it hurt.

Clint gave her a broken smile, and pressed his forehead against hers.

**in the morning, he gives her options.**

Natasha did not pretend she was asleep when she woke up. She slipped her hand into his, and stifled a smile when he brushed his thumb over hers.

"What time is it?" she asked, and he grunted in response. Clint checked his watch, his eyes barely opening, then flopped his hand back onto the bed.

"Too early." He sighed, as if preparing himself for the day. "Almost quarter 'til."

Natasha nodded into the pillow. She wanted to drift back to sleep as well, but she could tell it was late, and she had things to do. Natasha frowned, suddenly wondering just what Clint expected of her, after last night. The traitorous wriggles of panic crept into her stomach, but then Natasha remembered the earnesty in his eyes, and felt his fingers twined with her own. He hadn't touched her, aside from the hug. And when he had laid down beside her, wrapped his arms around her stomach, and pressed his face into her hair.

"What's going to happen next?" she found herself whispering. She held her breath as she waited for his response, unable to deny the nerves winding her tight.

"I'm not sure," he confessed, then sat up. He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, then looked at her. She gave a smile back, but she still felt nervous.

"All of this, Natasha, it depends on you."

Natasha blinked at that, and sat up. Depended on her? What did?

"I'm…not sure I understand what you mean."

Clint looked at the ceiling, then looked back at her. It was like he was gathering himself. When he spoke, the words were slow, careful.

"I…cannot make you do anything. I can tell you what I think, but you need to make up your own mind. So…remember that, okay?"

"Alright."

Clint licked his lips, and nodded.

"I want to help you, Natasha. I'm just not sure…what's the best. If you would feel comfortable, if you want to…you can come live with me. Or," he added quickly, like he was determined to head off any protest, "I can find you your own place, and help you get your feet under you from-from a distance. If you want to leave…this."

Natasha watched him for a long moment. She frowned at her hands. When she spoke, she did not look at him.

"And you think that's best?" She could feel Clint frowning, but didn't react. "Leaving the boarding house?"

"Yes."

Natasha looked at him then, staring straight into his eyes.

"To come live with you?" Natasha said it in a way that made sure he caught all of the unkind undertones. She had to know. She had to know what he was expecting out of her.

"If you want." He was speaking slow again, but this time, Natasha had the suspicion it was to keep out the hurt from his words. "Like I said…you make the decision. I just…I just want to help. If you wanna live by yourself, okay, and if you wanna live with me…that's okay, too."

Natasha let her gaze soften, and reached out for his hand. She nodded at him, finally letting her face break into a smile.

"I would like that. I would like to-would like to come live with you. Yes, I want that," she said, her voice breaking half way through. She found her throat tightening, and then there were tears and sobbing laughs tearing apart anything else she might want to say. They weren't necessarily _happy_ , because they hurt on their way out, but it was a good hurt. It wasn't ice.

Clint gave her the most relieved smile, and squeezed her hands.

"I'll take care of you," he promised, "I'll do whatever you need, I swear I'll do it."

Natasha kept crying and laughing, because she had told herself a thousand times that this _would not happen_ , not to her, not for real. And yet here it was. She hadn't been forced into a chance at happiness, like when she had been kicked out of the boarding house, she had been offered something and she had taken it.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, then went back to holding Clint's.

"Okay," she managed, "okay, what now? What do we do now?"

"Is there anything you need to get from there?" Clint asked, happy and serious and holding her hands so, so tight. "Do you need to go back?"

"Yes," she decided, "yeah, I need to go back. There are…there are somethings I need to get."

"How long will that take?"

"Not long," she said, seeing the things she actually wanted to keep in her mind's eye. "I can get them pretty quick."

"Alright, alright. Do you want me to go with you? I can't go inside, but I could wait…"

"No," Natasha said, shaking her head. "I need to do it alone."

"Then I'll come pick you up," he said. "I'll be waiting outside for you, okay?"

"Alright," she said. The thought of Clint waiting on the curb to whisk her away to something better made her chest tighten in the best way. "I'll walk there, that won't take long—"

"Walk? I could take you."

"No," Natasha said again. "I can do it. I need to do it." She absolutely would not be able to hold up the façade if she still had Clint and all of this joy swimming around her head. Natasha needed the time to wrap herself up in ice one more time, to make a superficial layer that would get her through walking back into torment once more.

Clint stared at her for a long moment, but then he gave a slow nod.

"Okay. So it's…almost ten, now, so how about I come 'round ten forty-five? That gives you time to get there, pack things up."

"Okay," Natasha agreed, fighting hard to keep an austere wave of giggles from coming up. She pressed her hand to her mouth, giving herself a moment for composure. "Okay, that'll be fine."

"Good," Clint said, giving a small smile.

"Okay," she repeated, like maybe saying the words would make it seem real. She glanced at Clint, searching for some confirmation of what they were doing.

Clint pressed his hand against her cheek.

"It's gonna be okay, Natasha," he told her. "We can do this. You can do this."

"I know, I know, I just…"

"You'll be fine."

Natasha gave Clint a smile, and pressed her hand over his.

"We should probably go."

"Yeah, you're right," he sighed, but he didn't let her go for a moment. Then he was standing up, looking for his shoes.

The two of them were quiet as they prepared to leave the motel room, for once getting ready to go together. Natasha couldn't help the small, nervous smile on her face as she followed him out the door, liking the way it warmed her face.

They walked out of the motel room, and paused by his car. Clint stopped her, running his thumb down her cheek one last time, before she had to go.

"Ten forty-five, right?" she asked, nerves jangling in her stomach again.

"Yes, ten forty-five."

"You'll be there, though, right? I mean, right there outside of the boarding house, you'll be waiting."

"Yes," he promised, "yes, I'll be there at ten forty-five. I'll be there, I'll be there. You just be ready to walk out those doors."

The thought of actually walking back _out_ of the boarding house made her stomach seize, because it wouldn't be _walking,_ it would be running, or possibly crawling on bloodied hands and knees. But Clint was holding her hand, and looking determined, and promising to be there, so Natasha swallowed and gave a nod.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. And you'll be there?"

"I'll be there. And if you don't come out on the dot, then I'll come in and get you. No matter what."

"Thank you," Natasha managed.

Clint leaned over and kissed her on the temple, then squeezed her hand one last time. She sucked in a breath and gave him a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cartwheels into the sun*


	21. lead me to the land of the living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A scene of domestic abuse.

"Dying Day"

Now I'm lost in a sea of sunken dreams  
While the sound of drunken screams echos in the night  
But I know all of this will come to pass  
And I'll be with you at last forever by your side

How these days grow long  
But I'm on my way back home  
It's been hard to be away  
How I miss you and I just want to kiss you  
And I'm gonna love you till my dying day

Brandi Carlile

* * *

**walking back home feels like shedding all of her chains. she thinks she might cry.**

Natasha walked fast, buoyed up by the feeling of _getting out._ The ever present dread and misery had somehow gone, removed with the promise of _'I'll be there'_ and a squeeze of the hand. Worry was still nestled up in her chest, Natasha was certain it would take a _long_ time before she fully got rid of that, but it didn't drag her down like before.

The feeling was so sweet she thought she might cry.

But Natasha dragged in another breath, set her features, and strolled into the boarding house for the last time. No matter what happened, she was _not_ going back inside. She was not going back.

Walking through the building to her room was strange. She felt like there was an ember in her chest, not burning her insides away like she had tried to do so long ago, but something warm and comforting. She waited for everyone to come to her, curious and greedy, trying to take what she had.

No one flocked around her. No one shot her accusatory looks. They all ignored her, like they had agreed, and she made it to her room without breaking into a run.

As expected, Gracia was there. She was asleep up on the bed, but roused when Natasha closed the door. She offered Natasha a smile, but when she didn't return it, Gracia sat up.

"What is it?"

Natasha shook her head, unsure if she had the words to explain. Everything she knew, every sound and syllable seemed ugly and banal. But she had to try.

She dragged in a breath, pressed a hand to her forehead, and then blurted the truth.

"I'm leaving."

"What?"

"I'm leaving the boarding house. I'm getting out, I'm going somewhere else. I can't stay here anymore, I know that, I've got to go." The words were quick and low, almost a whisper. But she met Gracia's eyes, excitement stumbling into her voice. She covered her mouth, trying to stay together, trying to not give into giddy hysteria.

Gracia frowned at Natasha, confused at this sudden revelation.

"You're…leaving?" Her expression was crunched, uncertain and a little afraid.

"I have a friend, he's going to help me." Natasha knelt in front of Gracia and took her face in her hands when she saw the _doubt_ scrawled across her features.

"How do you know…will this work?"

"I don't know," Natasha admitted. "I really don't. I can't be sure of anything."

"But what if he hurts you? What if you can't leave? The Landlord won't let you go, he's not going to—Natasha you can't do this!" Gracia said, tears forming in her eyes. Natasha grit her teeth. This was the little girl that had quietly put bandaids over Natasha's wounds after the Landlord had beat her senseless, and not let a tear loose. But now she was crying, scared and helpless and grabbing onto Natasha's hands as if that could keep her safe.

"I will make it work," Natasha said, forcing her voice to be steady. "Don't worry about it. I'll get out, I'm not going to let the Landlord stop me, not any more. I just need to _get out,_ " Natasha said, holding onto her face and letting a shaky laugh loose. "He's _never_ brought someone back in, never chased them down. If I can just make it out the doors, I'm never coming back. I'm going some place better, _any_ place better."

"But he won't _let_ you even—"

"I've got to try, Gracia," she said, voice hard and pleading for the little girl to not say the truth hanging around their heads. Natasha couldn't even let the idea enter her head, else she would fail.

Gracia nodded, expression still fragile, but she let Natasha wipe her tears away. Natasha stood to start sorting through her things, then stopped. Her breath was tight when she spoke next.

"Gracia, I can't take you with me."

The little girl's expression said she expected just as much, but there was still some hurt in her eyes. Natasha grimaced, hating how the words sounded, but knowing they had to be said.

"I couldn't…it wouldn't have been right for me to ask my friend to bring you along. He is doing a _lot_ for me, and that's a big step. I couldn't just—"

"I know," Gracia said, but Natasha could tell she really didn't. Gracia thought it was more self-preservation, Natasha ensuring she managed to get herself to safety, rather than risk it on Gracia. Natasha wanted to bring her along, she really, _really_ did. She felt sick at the thought of leaving the little girl virtually helpless, but there was nothing else Natasha could do. Not yet. She needed Clint's help, and there was no way she could justify bringing some unknown and incredibly damaged child along and throwing her into Clint's lap.

No. She needed to get herself on steady footing, then she would fight the hell and the high water to get Gracia somewhere safe.

The logic didn't make her feel any better, though, and seeing it all on Gracia's face now made Natasha want to scream because things were _never fair_ for them.

"I will come back for you," Natasha said. Her voice was low but firm, not one of the flighty promises so often made in the boardinghouse. Gracia gave another pathetic nod.

"I _will_ come back for you," Natasha repeated, moving closer. "I'm not gonna leave you here. No matter what happens, I _will_ come back and I _will_ take you away from here."

"What about your friend?"

"Doesn't matter. I will make sure that you get out of here and you find something better. _We_ will find something better."

Natasha set her jaw and met Gracia's eye, knowing this was true. Even if things went horribly wrong with Clint, Natasha would make sure to take Gracia with her to something better. They were done being subjected to cruel men's whims.

"Do you swear?" she asked, voice soft.

"I swear it. It will take a little while, but as soon as I can, I will get you out of here. Okay?"

"Okay. Okay. But—but how will I know? What if it's too hard, what if you don't want me later?" Panic akin to the kind Natasha had felt yesterday was punching through Gracia's voice, verging on the edge of tears. Natasha squeezed Gracia's hands, and reached into one of the cabinets.

Taking another shaky breath, Natasha pulled out the puzzle box. She opened it, and took out a few bills, then handed it and the rest of the money inside of it to Gracia.

"Here, take this," Natasha said. "It is _very important_ to me. My father gave it to me, yes? That's all I have left of him. I want you to keep it until I come for you, alright?"

"What? No, I can't keep this!"

"Yes, you can. This is yours, until we're back together. _Take_ it, Gracia. And don't tell anyone about the money inside of it. Okay? Okay. Alright. You know I'm coming back for you. You'll be alright, you brave, beautiful little girl. You've done so well so far, and I know it's going to be hard, but you'll have to make it just a little bit longer."

Natasha pressed her hands against Gracia's cheeks, not caring that both of them were crying. She pulled Gracia into a fierce hug, then pulled back.

"Alright. Now I need to get ready. He's going to be here at ten forty-five, I need to hurry."

"I'll help!" Gracia said, smearing her tears away, and sliding to the floor. Natasha nodded, and grabbed the bag she had used on the streets. She moved quickly, grabbing up what she thought she would need.

**packing her things is a twisted relief. there is not much, and yet it feels like she is sorting through years' worth of suffering.**

It was a little strange, as she and Gracia frantically packed up Natasha's life, because there was not much Natasha wanted to take. She was staring her life in the face, and yet…there was almost nothing she wanted to keep from it. Half of her shoes and clothes were completely ignored, only a handful of toiletries stowed away. Gracia diligently helped her, checking on each item she wasn't certain about. The biggest regret Natasha had was that she could not take her bed along with her. She had become attached to the pile of blankets and pillows, and she found herself stopping to look at it, mourning the comfort she was no longer allowed to have.

Gracia noticed, and finally grabbed the thinnest blanket, folded it, and pushed it into Natasha's bag.

"No, there's not enough room," Natasha protested, pulling it back out. "I can't take this along, it's not…I'm fine, really. It's just a blanket."

"It's my blanket," Gracia said. Natasha stared at her, surprised. She knew Gracia had tracked some things into Natasha's room, but it had never expected this, something so personal.

"I can't take this."

"No, do it," Gracia said, biting her lip. "It's so you remember me, too."

Natasha stared at her for a long moment, then grabbed her into another hug. It was over in a second, because they had to hurry, but Natasha was still brushing tears from her eyes as she cleaned out the vanity.

"What about these?" Gracia asked, pulling out the bag of sticky notes. Natasha hesitated at the sight of them. It had sat in the cabinet, ignored for months. The hurt of what Clint had done to her had been far too ragged for her to even look at it. And then when he had come back…

"Throw it away," she said, turning back to shuffle through her cosmetics. "I don't need it."

Soon enough, they were done. Natasha glanced around the room, feeling empty. It didn't seem like anything had changed, but she had just ripped her life out of the only sanctuary she knew.

"Now, for you," Natasha said, turning to Gracia. She frowned at Natasha, shaking her head.

"But I'm not going, yet."

"No, but the Landlord is going to tear through here once I'm gone. He'll probably burn it all once I'm out the door. So you need to take what you can now, move it to your room while they watch me leave."

"No, I want to be there for you! I want to see you go!"

" _No,_ " Natasha said, shaking her head. She thought of all the girls kicked out of the boarding house, of her own horrendous scene. This could be so much worse. "You don't want to watch that. I don't want you watching. You take what you can to your room, _hide_ it, and don't come down, no matter what. You'll see me soon enough."

"Okay…" Gracia submitted, frowning.

"Let's see if we can get some things for Rae, too," Natasha said, thinking about the other girl. Who knew how things would turn out for her, once Natasha left. "You'll have to take care of her—you'll have to take care of each other."

"I know," Gracia said, picking through the bed again for anything she wanted. There wasn't actually much Gracia could keep for her own use, but there were some things, like clothes, shoes, or little tools that could be traded with other girls. Anything would help her at this point.

When they finished, there was a small pile sitting on Natasha's vanity, waiting to be ferried from room to room. Natasha knew that she had better go, but she felt nervous, she didn't want to leave the little oasis of calm she was wrapped in. But Clint would be waiting.

"Alright, this is it," she breathed, reaching down to hug Gracia one last time. She kissed her hair, and tried not to cry at the way Gracia squeezed her extra tight.

"Come back quick, okay?" Gracia asked, and Natasha nodded. Her stomach was squirming around, and she couldn't quite breathe right, but she was doing this, she was going to walk down those steps and out the front door and _get away._

"Are you ready?"

"Mm-hm."

"Okay. I love you, Gracia."

"I love you, Natasha. Be careful."

"And you, be safe. I'll come back as soon as I can."

"Okay."

Natasha dragged in another breath, and walked to the door. She put her hand on the knob, and looked back at Gracia.

"You won't watch, right?"

"I won't."

"Okay."

She nodded at Gracia one last time, and opened the door. Gracia's tears were the most heartbreaking thing she had ever seen.

**everyone else catches wind. the landlord stops her in the lobby.**

As Natasha walked down the hall, a few girls saw her. It only took a few seconds for them to notice the bags in her hands, the coat on her back, the steely determination in her eyes. They disappeared, off to whisper this to the rest of the house.

Natasha kept her back straight as she went down the stairs, and reached the main landing. Eyes had followed her the whole way, people silently following her, unsure as to what was going to happen next.

The Landlord caught up with her before she could make the door.

"Where d'you think _you're_ goin'?" the Landlord called. His voice was like a stone thrown at her back. Natasha kept walking, trying not to change her pace, trying to appear unaffected—

"I asked you, _where the hell're you going?_ " the Landlord snarled, grabbing her arm. Natasha gasped as he jerked her around, but she didn't let herself shrink back. She looked him in the eye, because she was _done_ being his play thing.

"I'm leaving," she said, voice amazingly steady. He stared at her, unable to believe what she had said. He gave a bark of laughter, but didn't take his eyes off of her. They were so, so cold.

"I don't think you understand just what's goin' on here," he said, grabbing both of her arms. It felt like a cage closing around her chest. "You don't just get to go whenever you want to, remember? You go when I _say."_

He shoved her back, and Natasha almost lost her footing. She regained her balance, freezing the fear shrieking through her chest, the panic that was threatening to close down her lungs and make her choke. This last time, Natasha ushered the ice around her bones, and turned a bit of it turn onto him.

He smiled like it was almost a joke.

"I am _leaving,_ " she said, making sure each word was hard and clear. The Landlord hit her, making Natasha stagger again. She dragged in a breath, feeling the heat and pain pulsing through her skin, but she didn't back down.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, and shoved her back toward the stairs.

"You wanna say that _again_?" he snarled, big and terrible and making her want to hide. "You wanna tell me just _exactly_ what you're plannin' on doin' out there? Didn't the streets spit you out, didn't you _prove_ you couldn't handle it, comin' back, groveling on your damn _hands and knees_? You think _you_ , Natasha, could really make it _this_ time 'round?"

Natasha didn't look at the Landlord. She glanced back at the people watching, hiding, and noticed the shock on their faces at her resistance. She turned back to the Landlord, chest heaving. He was now standing directly between her and the door, and she needed to get out, she needed to leave, burst through those doors and find Clint. But Gracia's words were ringing back in her head, saying that the Landlord would not let her go. Panic rose up and squeezed her heart, because maybe that was true, maybe he would drag her back, even if she made the doors. He would grab her, screaming in the street, and pull her back into the horrendous dark to die.

Natasha glanced away again, feeling the tears in her eyes, feeling the triumph in the Landlord's gaze.

"No, I didn't think that was the case. _Now,_ " he growled, "why don't we be a good li'l girl, and go back up those steps. You know where my room is."

Natasha glared back at him, hating him, hating that she was so helpless. She glanced past him to the glass doors again, and stifled a sob.

Clint. Clint was there, climbing out of his car, and heading toward the boarding house. He was _there_ , he was coming to help her.

Natasha looked back at the Landlord, and forced herself to take a relatively normal breath. The Landlord's grip tightened on her arm when he saw something change in her eyes.

"Let me go," she said, voice soft.

" _Excuse_ me?"

"I said let me go. I am leaving."

The Landlord was on the verge of lashing out, yelling at her and hitting her to the ground again, but the door opened. A wave of gasps and mutterings came from the people behind them as they latched onto Clint, shocked that anyone from the outside could come into their world. Natasha stared into the Landlord's eyes, triumphant in the face of all his sudden, vicious venom.

"Do we have a problem?" Clint asked, and finally, the Landlord turned around.

"This ain't any a your business," he said, voice ice cold. Clint shrugged like the Landlord _wasn't_ a monster amongst men, like he wasn't at all afraid. Natasha dragged in another breath, and forced herself to keep from hiding herself with her hands.

"It is, a little bit." Clint glanced past the Landlord, getting a good look at Natasha. His eyes paused over the ugly red mark on her face. He met her gaze, made sure that she was alright, then slid his eyes back to the Landlord. "You keeping her here?"

Natasha pressed her lips together, because this was too much, this was too overwhelming, when had she been allowed to get _this?_ Clint stared down the Landlord, big and proud and able to dam rivers with only his hands. And he was there, at her defense.

"She belongs here, to me," the Landlord said. His voice was a cool threat, scathing now that Clint had dared come here and interfere. At his words, though, Clint turned completely cold.

"She _belongs_ to you?" he asked, stepping a little closer. "She doesn't belong to _anybody_."

"She's got debts, and she hasn't paid 'em back. She can't leave until she gives me my money."

"Yeah? Because forcing her to stay in prostitution, and then extorting every dime until she's got nothing left clearly isn't enough for room and board." Clint's eyes were controlled, but he was threatening the Landlord with every inch of his being,

"Where do you get off bein' so high and mighty, anyway?" the Landlord snarled. "What's she to you? Ain't you just another one a the people that she whores herself out to? Aren't you just a part a the problem? Unless you _actually_ think you're gonna make things _better,_ takin' her with you. That it? You keep a li'l pet whore for yourself, make you feel better, she's safe, off the streets, while you use her as you want. Tell me, how's that any _better_ than me?"

"Don't talk about her that way," Clint said. His voice was calm and unimpressed on the surface, but it held a lethal edge of _do not test me_ underneath.

"Get the hell outta here," the Landlord hissed, then turned to face Natasha. "You come with me."

"N-no, let me go!" she gasped, trying to jerk out of his grip and reach Clint. " _Let me go!_ "

"I said _move!_ " the Landlord hissed, jerking her so that he was right in her face. She shook her head, too scared to shift, too scared to say anything coherent. The Landlord hit her again, and it was only his vice on her arm that kept her from falling down.

" _Hey!_ " Clint yelled, grabbing ahold of the Landlord's shoulder. "Do not make her say it again. Let her _go_."

The Landlord turned to sneer at him, but Clint wheeled him around, and gave him a solid punch to the jaw. Natasha gasped as his grip was wrenched away from her, and she scrambled to move away. She clamped onto Clint's arm, holding him too hard, she knew, but if she let go, she was certain unseen hands would drag her back into the boarding house, and no one would be able to save her. Clint took hold of her hand, squeezing it tight.

" _Natasha!_ " the Landlord screamed, voice ragged and terrible. He tried to grab her again, but Clint was there, shoving him back. "Natasha, the second you walk out that door's the second your life is _over!_ When this _fairytale_ you got goin' on falls to shit, you'll come crawlin' back, don't you dare forget it! You'd be _dead_ without me, you'd be some nameless, mutilated _whore_ on the street, and that's just what you'll be without me! You're gonna come _sniveling_ back, and don't you dare think I'll let you in! Everything else will be a damn _daydream_ compared to what I'm gonna do to you! You hear me, Natasha? You hear me? _Natasha!_ "

Clint guided Natasha by the shoulders, hurrying her to the door as the Landlord bellowed at her from across the room. She stumbled, her feet not wanting to respond, her legs not sure how to react, but Clint was there, leading her along to somewhere where the air was clean.

She glanced back, but it was not for the Landlord. It was for a little girl that Natasha _prayed_ was not in the crowd, but searched for, just in case. She couldn't see her, though, so Natasha turned back to face the door.

**it is hard for her to get in the car.**

Clint yanked open the car door for her, and Natasha hurriedly fell into the seat. He glanced back at the boarding house, one last vicious slap toward the Landlord and the things he had done to her. Natasha was gripped with the sudden urge to shove open the door and go back, to not push things any further, to go back and apologize and not risk the rest of her life on a bridge made entirely of glass.

She clenched her hands together, and pressed them against her mouth until they hurt. She closed her eyes, waiting for the Landlord to come for her, waiting for the chaos to spill to the streets, but nothing happened. The doors stayed shut, their tinted glass hiding what had happened inside. They stayed quiet, dark, and ominous, looming on the edge of her mind.

Clint finally reached his door, and yanked it open. He turned on the car, and drove them away without a word.

Natasha cupped her hands around her mouth, trying to breathe, trying to not feel like her heart was going to break her chest, trying to get her head on straight before she completely fell to pieces. She wasn't leaving the boarding house, anymore, she had left.

Natasha wasn't sure if she felt powerful or terrified.

She wanted to say something, to try expressing her heartfelt thanks, her fear, her relief and disbelief of being _out_. But her lips only trembled, so she didn't push herself. Clint tried to say something, as well, but he could only grit his teeth. They were both casualties of a battle they hadn't known was raging for a very long time.

Clint's knuckles were white around the steering wheel, but he otherwise seemed calm as he left the dirty fragments of her life far behind.

It suddenly all broke over Natasha, and she was instantly crying, sobbing helplessly as she realized what she had just done. She had left, she had walked through the fangs of a monster, and had been left somehow unscathed.

Clint pulled over as she heaved with tears, then reached over and grabbed her into a fierce hug. He didn't say anything for a long time as she sobbed once more into his chest, just held her enough to hurt.

"I'm sorry, _I'm sorry,_ I didn't mean—I don't know—Clint, I—I—I _—Clint,"_ she gasped, completely bemused at the onslaught of emotions tearing through her skin. She shook in his arms, but he didn't say anything, didn't tell her this or that, didn't push her off with a pat on the back and some tissues. He just stayed there, weathering her out.

"I _did_ it," she breathed finally, once she could actually get proper thoughts together. "Clint, I—I _left_ , I'm _out!_ And you helped me, and I don't know how—"

"It's okay," he said, and though there were still traces of anger in his face, it was overwhelmed by the heartbroken joy spreading into his smile.

She laughed, grabbing onto his hands, kissing them, smearing them with her tears. He kissed her, taking her face with both hands, and then just pressed their foreheads together.

There were still things he wanted to say, Natasha could feel it. They were ugly questions, questions about her time in the boarding house, about the Landlord, about what she had gone through. But he didn't ask them. He stayed quiet, and ran his hand through her hair, and kissed her temple, and whispered _I'm here with you_ , and let things be okay.

Natasha was still stammering for breath when he turned the car back on, and continued driving to his house. Natasha found that she could finally appreciate the city around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you guys feel bad for doubting whether or not Natasha would get out this chapter ;)
> 
> (This is where we enter the period I like to call 'too many endings', because the story could literally just stop at a dozen points from here on out. I just find that interesting)


	22. a kiss of a taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an overwhelming amount of feelings about this chapter while writing it. Usually I can separate my writer church and state, but whatever mental documents I had keeping those barriers in place just disappeared and I was filled with all of these wonderful emotions.

"No One Else"

Lay down those heavy burdens  
On the banks of this river deep  
Know that every piece of your past  
Is always some place safe with me

And there's no room for judgment  
I want you as yourself, 'cuz  
I belong with you and  
No one else

We have both been broken,  
Bent into painful shapes,  
And almost let those old fears  
Carry over and get in our way

Amel Larrieux

* * *

**he takes her back to his home, and it feels like a strange iteration of the past. but it is so, so much better.**

Natasha was hesitant to get out of the car when he pulled up to the curb, staring at his townhouse through the window. She listened to Clint unlock the car and get out. She closed her eyes, swallowed, and forced herself to open the door.

"Come on," Clint said, offering her a mild smile and reaching out to her. She took his hand, hating how shaky her legs felt.

They walked the front steps, paused at the door, and then walked inside. Natasha glanced around, nervous, the ghosts of last time seeping through the brickwork. She dragged in a breath, pushed them away.

Clint's home hadn't changed. It was still big, and expensive, and filled with a decadent lifestyle she had swooped through and come to disdain. It was, essentially, the exact opposite of her tiny, dingy room. Her old room. The room she had lived in.

"Alright," Clint murmured. He was tense as well, hands smoothing down his jacket, brushing over the back of a chair, grating against themselves as he tried to find his next step. "Why don't we…why don't we go ahead and get something to eat, since we didn't have time for breakfast. Then, uhm, we can get you settled."

Natasha glanced down at the bags that held the life she wanted to live, and gave a small smile. Her settling there was going to be about so much more than finding a new home for her possessions.

"That sounds good," she murmured, leaving her bags by the table. She pulled off her shoes, draped her coat over a chair, and stared numbly around the room.

"Do you have a bathroom down here?" she asked, and Clint nodded.

"Mm-hm, it's just over there," he said, pointing at the small inlet that held his laundry room. She nodded, and drifted in the direction he indicated.

The bathroom was small, enough room for a sink and a toilet. She stepped inside, and then sat down against the wall, staring at the closed door. Natasha reached up and grabbed the hand towel, then pressed it against her mouth.

Natasha didn't cry. She let out a few hollow sobs, her chest shaking as the towel caught the sound. She had cried herself out that morning, had emptied her soul of all the water is possessed. Now she was left with a dry sort of shock.

She held her body tight, trying to shake all of those strange, messy feelings out with her lungs, to expel with each hollow huff. She wasn't sure what she was feeling, but it was crashing over her again and again, confusion and doubt and hope and excitement and fear and a thousand other things that came with the thought of _'anything'_.

After a few moments, Natasha got to her feet. Her hands were shaking when she threaded the towel back through its holder. She braced her hands against the counter, taking the time to breathe, to assemble herself, then left the bathroom.

Clint was in the kitchen, facing away from her. She walked around the counter, smoothing her hands over her legs.

"Oh, hey," Clint said, glancing over his shoulder. "Great timing. I was wondering, what kind of sandwich do you want?"

"What do you have?"

"Anything. Everything. Go ahead and choose," Clint smiled. Natasha swallowed, uncertain what to do when faced with the prospect she had just tried stuffing away. She dragged her gaze over the counter, then settled back onto Clint.

"There's peanut butter and jelly," he offered. His voice was gentle. "That's a good standby. And, hm, there's ham, grilled cheese, roast beef..."

"Peanut butter and jelly sounds good."

"Alright. Jelly's in the fridge," he said, stepping around her to reach the pantry. Natasha opened the stainless steel fridge, and picked up the jar of jelly. She moved back to the counter. If she focused on the little steps, the immediate things she had to do, then infinity wouldn't swallow her whole. She could do this.

"Here," Clint said, holding out a knife and peanut butter. She smiled at him, and took it.

"What are you thinking about having?"

"Me? Uhm, I dunno. Whatever comes to mind before I get bored with sandwich making."

Natasha smiled, and turned back to her sandwich. They stayed in comfortable silence for a while, before Natasha tried adding the jelly to her sandwich.

"What is this?" she asked, staring at her knife in vague horror.

"…Jelly?"

" _That's_ not jelly," she told him frankly, tearing her eyes away from the strange, gelatinous substance clinging to her knife. "This is…this is like _jell-o._ It's solid, and weird. And there aren't seeds. _"_

"That's because it's _grape_ jelly," Clint scoffed. "What have _you_ been using all this time?"

"Berry jam. You know, something that actually _resembles_ a fruit product?"

"Alright, calm down, preserve police," he said, turning back to his own sandwich. Natasha gave him a look, then resignedly began smearing it over her bread. "We'll get this elitist _berry jam_ tomorrow, alright?"

"It sounds passable," she grumbled, but she was fighting a smile, and when she stole a peek at Clint, he was grinning at his bread.

"There are apples in the fridge, if you want some," Clint said, tipping his head over at the fridge as he put their plates on the counter. Natasha nodded, and pulled two from the crisping bin.

"Grab anything you want to drink," he said, pulling out two cups from the cabinet. Natasha adjusted the apples in her hands so she could carry the milk jug as well.

Lunch was quiet, as all their meals had been. Natasha felt alright, though. The quiet was nice after the chaos of the day.

 _The morning_ , she corrected herself. A part of her seemed to collapse at the realization that her day had started a couple hours after midnight, and had only sprawled on from there. A dynasty had died that day, an era she never wanted to relive.

When she was done eating, Clint took her hand and guided her to the couch. "Alright," he said, "alright. We've gotta talk about some stuff, first."

Natasha glanced back at their plates, left on the counter to fend for themselves. She wanted to go pick them up, to give herself just a little more time before she had to commit to the overwhelming task of _changing things._

She sat down next to Clint, legs placed primly and as she faced the wall. Clint was turned toward her, though, legs folded on the couch cushion between them.

**there are still things they must say, and she is nervous, but she is ready.**

"Alright," he repeated, like he was buying himself a little more time. "There are some things we should sort out before…before we go on, okay?"

Natasha nodded. Her hands were folded tight in her lap, and her throat felt tight when she swallowed, but a deep breath later, she was meeting his eyes.

"I just want to be sure that we…cover everything, know exactly what needs to be done. I was thinking that tomorrow, we could go and do a little shopping. You don't really have a lot, so maybe we could pick up some clothes, yeah? And it'd be good to hit up the grocery store, now that there are two people living here."

Clint seemed nervous while he spoke, like he didn't know if she would object. Natasha nodded, though, not letting her mind delve into the big, overwhelming task of shopping for herself. Most of her clothes had come from other girls from the boarding house, or secondhand stores. Now she was being offered a new wardrobe and more, free of cost. She bit her lips, and kept listening to Clint.

"Do you need anything else? Shoes, shampoo, anything?"

"Uhm, shoes," she said, thinking of the myriad of heels and straps and leather she had left behind. She wanted normal shoes. "I have everything else."

"Okay. We'll buy whatever else we need to as we reach it," he said with a smile, then paused to think. Natasha watched him, relieved that he was taking charge of this. She frankly had _no idea_ what needed to be done.

"I should call my lawyer," Clint murmured, "just in case. It would also be good if we got you in to see a doctor, make sure everything's alright, physically at least. And Natasha…I think it would be good if you talked to someone."

"Who?" she asked, unable to stop the vaguely suspicious edge in her voice. He didn't lower his eyes, though. His tone was gentle, a simple suggestion passed between them. She pursed her lips, and reminded herself that she did not need to be hard to survive. Not here.

"I'm not sure. There are groups that can help people…that have suffered a lot, like you have. Or, you could get a therapist, or something. You don't have to right away, don't have to at all, I just…I think it'd be a good idea to talk to someone else. Someone…who gets what happened."

Natasha worked her jaw, considering. She looked at her hands, then glanced back at Clint.

"Okay," she said, a clear signal to move on. Clint nodded, but didn't say anything right away. He let out a breath, and when he did speak, his tone was careful.

"Natasha…do you have papers?" he asked. He was staring into her face, expression set and determined. Natasha blinked, swallowed, then nodded. Documentation. She hadn't thought about that in so, so long.

"Y-yes, I do," she murmured, and he relaxed, ever so slightly.

"Where is it?" Natasha hesitated, thinking. She had hidden it the moment she had taken to the streets, recalling her parents' gravity when discussing the papers allowing them to stay in the country.

"It's behind a picture," she said, standing up and walking over to one of her bags. She searched through it, finding the photograph of her and her grandparents. It was the same one that she had held to her chest the night that she had been kicked out of the boarding house, the one that had given her at least a shred of comfort while in the cold.

She walked back to Clint, fingers picking at the back of the frame. With shaking hands, she opened the back of the picture frame, exposing the old, folded certificate.

"Here," she said, holding it out to him. He carefully took it, eyes scanning the paper. He silently handed it back, and Natasha replaced it in the picture frame.

"We should find a safer place for that," he told her. "And anything important like that. Other stuff, like a bank account, or a driver's license, if you want one, we can talk to my lawyer about that. Okay…well, there's only more thing I can think of, right now."

Natasha frowned at him, the picture frame still resting in her lap. She may not have thought about her proof of citizenship for years, but it offered her a bit of comfort, yet another thing she had possessed that the Landlord had never been able to touch.

"Where do you want to sleep? Which room, I mean."

Natasha thought about the second room she had seen upstairs, the neat, dusty place that probably no one had lived in for quite a while.

"Yours, if that's alright."

Clint broke into a quick, pleased grin. Natasha smiled back, liking how infectious happiness was.

"Let's move your stuff up there now, and then we can find something to help hold it all tomorrow, sound good?"

"I can do that," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I'll…I'll move it up, and I think I'll take a shower."

"Do you want help, moving your stuff up?"

"No," she smiled, "I can do that by myself."

**this world is now hers, she thinks, and she is not sure if she is more thrilled or concerned.**

Natasha set her two bags down against Clint's dresser, and glanced around his room. It looked pretty much the same as before. Clothes were draped over a chair, a laundry basket was sprawled in the middle of the floor, a few stray socks spilling from it. It was cool and comforting and now partially belonging to her.

She smiled at the thought, but also felt her pulse quicken.

It felt like walking in her own footsteps when she pulled out new clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. The light wasn't as obtrusive as it had been, though, not pointing out all of her flaws and mistakes and helplessness. It was just bright.

She turned on the water, and stripped down. Natasha paused, remembering that she was still wearing makeup. Day old, smudged, horrendous makeup that would be even worse if she got in the shower. She grimaced and stepped up to the mirror to take it off, then stopped. Natasha stared at the girl in the mirror.

The last time she had been there, Natasha had only noticed how damaged she was. She saw the bruises, and the bones, and the unhappiness steeped in her skin. This girl was similar. She had a bruise on her cheek, and one on her shoulder from the Landlord's hands. Her makeup was smeared and tired, the mirk from her eyeliner and the shock of her lipstick making her seem pale and sickly. Her hair was a mess, her clothes barely there, and she looked exhausted. She could still see her hipbones, the hard slash of her collarbone, the ridiculously, horribly thin legs.

Natasha cleaned off her makeup.

She worked quickly in the shower, scrubbing her body down and cleaning her hair in a matter of moments. Then she stood there, the water tumbling into her face, sliding over every part of her skin. She closed her eyes, and imagined the Landlord and the boarding house and the _horror_ soaking out of her, drifting out and away and down the drain.

Natasha turned off the water and grabbed her towel. She hesitated, the towel soft and thick in her hand. Natasha stepped out of the shower, and returned to the mirror. The towel stayed clutched in her hand as she examined herself, breath catching in her throat.

Her skin was pale, and her hair was red and hung around her face in thin strings. The bruises were still there, as were the prominent bones, and the exhaustion. Her face was clear, free of makeup, tears, dread, and ice cold emptiness. She was comfortable enough to look at herself. She was comfortable enough to shower with the door cracked open.

Natasha blinked and glanced away, and used the towel to wipe off the tears that fell onto her hand.

A few minutes later, Natasha made her way back downstairs. She watched Clint from the foot of the stairs for a moment. He was laying on the couch, glancing over papers and something on his laptop as the tv played. Natasha found herself smiling, because she could never recall seeing Clint so at peace.

She padded over, and stopped before him.

"Hey," he smiled, shifting so she could sit down. Natasha considered, then carefully laid herself against him, snuggled in tight between the back of the couch and his side. He adjusted his arms accordingly, eyes back on his papers.

"What're you doing?"

"Looking over some forms for the hotel I'm helping build," he murmured, flipping the page. "Apparently there are some special safety codes that need to be considered."

Natasha raised her eyebrows. Clint had mentioned that he was an engineer, and had on occasion complained about some vague thing about his job, but she had never really connected it to the real world. She had met so many men with so many jobs, engineer and lawyer and accountant and linguist and journalist all tumbling together until the words meant nothing. The only jobs that Natasha had the luxury of paying attention to were the ones that she could see: the construction workers and the shop keepers and the cab drivers that inhabited her dingy, simple little world. But now she was gazing at the evidence of something more, peeking into the proper, done up world of white collar work.

"What are you watching?" she asked, tipping her head at the screen.

"Mm?" Clint glanced away from his papers, and considered the tv. "Oh, it's this show that I like. It's kind of like the news, but just human interest pieces. Nice, upbeat stuff. This one's a recording. It's more on for background noise, than anything."

Natasha nodded, and watched the current segment playing. It was about the private life of some musician, featuring plenty walks on the beach and an exceptionally laid back attitude. She rested her head against Clint's chest, listening to his heartbeat as she watched a piece on an animal shelter, a philanthropist, the evolution of the Bentley. Clint focused on his work, consulting his papers on occasion, but mostly working on his computer.

When the episode Natasha was watching finished, Clint handed her the remote, and she selected another recording from the same series. As the afternoon wore on, Natasha felt herself relaxing, the latent anxiety in her bones seeping out when she breathed, fleeing her body and letting her feel _good._ At one point, Clint got up to warm up some leftovers, and they ate dinner on the couch, watching a movie he had suggested to her. It was nice, and Natasha did not dare let herself second guess it.

**despite everything, she is nervous when they go to bed.**

Natasha didn't protest when Clint turned off the tv and said that they should go to bed. She had been forcing herself to stay awake for the last half hour of the movie, and was fairly relieved that Clint had taken the matter into his own hands. The day had been impossibly long for both of them, and now she appreciated the prospect of just being able to sleep.

Clint politely said nothing as Natasha went to change in the bathroom. Natasha couldn't help but feel self-conscious when she came back out. He had seen her naked, and stripped down to the bone, but this was different. She was wearing only her underwear and a shirt that went down to her thighs, but she knew full well that she was showing him something private beyond belief. This was what she wore to bed. This was what she put on when she wasn't too exhausted before she crawled into her nest, this was what she chose over the delicate and seductive lingerie she made herself put on whenever she went to work. This was Natasha, not some nameless prostitute on the street.

Clint had stripped down to his underwear while she was in the bathroom, and was currently drawing the curtains, sealing away the remnants of the sun. Natasha dragged in a breath, and walked to the side of the bed she had taken last time.

Doubt was wriggling its way back through her at the sight of the bed and Clint wearing practically nothing. She _knew_ that this was not a job, Clint was not the kind of person to expect sex from her, because she had been a prostitute. And yet, her palms still chose to sweat as she pulled the covers up to her neck.

Clint didn't say anything as he walked around the bed, fiddled with his phone for a moment, and then sank in beside her. Natasha stared at the ceiling, measuring her breaths, attempted to lull herself back into the sleepy serenity from before. The darkness was silent and sweet, filling the room with a soft comfort. The predominant sound was the two of them breathing, though the occasional sound of a dog barking, or a quiet siren pushed through the walls. Natasha closed her eyes.

"Natasha?" Clint asked, barely a murmur against the sheets. She didn't answer, but glanced at him. Clint hesitated, steadying himself. "Can I…can I touch you? Not—not like that, just…can I hold you?"

Natasha swallowed, bit her lip, looked at the ceiling.

"Yes," she whispered, then kissed his cheek, because she could not remember the last time someone had truly given her a choice.

Carefully, like he was gathering butterflies on his fingertips, he reached over to her. He just barely touched her hip, her side, her back, dandelion seeds skating over her skin. He pressed his hand flat, wary at first, then turning firm when she didn't push him away. Clint held her close, each breath shuddery in his chest, but his heartbeat was steady and strong and promising that _this_ was what he wanted with each thump.

Natasha closed her eyes, and tried very, very hard not to cry. Clint, if he noticed, did not say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the worry I've expressed about this story and the heavy content it contains, I can undoubtedly say that I am very proud of what I've done with it. While writing the bathroom scene I couldn't help but feel inexplicably proud of Natasha's evolution within the story. She is absolutely not fixed, by any means, but it was really nice to think that I managed to take her some place better.


	23. did the wind sweep you off your feet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just so domestic and cute I simply cannot (but at the same time, it felt a little strange because I kept wanting to extend the chapter to the next conflict, and I had to literally tell myself 'Joy, no. Put the angst down. You don't need pain here. They have earned this. Let them be happy').

"Your Precious Love"

And I, I've got a song to sing  
Tellin' the world about the joy you bring  
And you gave me a reason for living  
And ooh, you taught me, you taught me the meaning of giving

Heaven must have sent you from above  
Heaven must have sent your precious love

To find a love like ours is rare these days  
'Cause you've shown me what happiness is in so many ways  
I look in the mirror, and I'm glad to see  
Laughter in the eyes where tears used to be

Marvin Gaye ft. Tammi Terrell

* * *

**in the morning, they have breakfast.**

Natasha couldn't help but feel a thrill of worry when she woke up the next morning. She was curled into Clint's side, and his hand was wound into the back of her shirt. His breath was soft and slow, caused by a peace she had never hoped to know. He was there, and she was there, and there was no sticky note waiting to be left, no filthy, condemning dollar bills on the table, no sense of duty and dread that came when the sunlight chased her back to her cave.

And yet, she could not bring herself to trust this bliss.

Her hand tightened into the sheets, and she dragged in a breath to calm herself down. She could do this. She had _earned_ this.

"Good morning," Clint mumbled into her hair, his voice giving out on half of the sounds. Natasha swallowed, and let her hand settle into his hair.

"Morning," she whispered back, the word catching in her throat. She hoped Clint thought it was because she was still half asleep, and not because finally hearing him greet her awake made her heart swell.

"You hungry?"

"Are you?"

"I could honestly sleep for forever," he admitted, but broke into a grin and shifted to look at her. Clint had a sleepy smile on his face, one that was quiet and happy and relieved and so, so handsome.

He traced the edge of her cheek with his thumb, not asking for anything. Natasha reached up, and held his hand in her own.

A few minutes later, they had both managed to drag themselves out of bed and start on breakfast. Clint had pulled on a t-shirt and sweats, which tugged at Natasha's heart, because she had never seen him so _casual_ before. The only instance she could think of was when she had first come to his house, and found him wearing a plain shirt and jeans, but this was relaxed and comfortable and quietly whispering ' _I'm not putting on any fronts for you'_.

The two of them decided on eggs ("Clint, you can't use more cheese, you've used half the _block_ …"), and twenty minutes later they were seated at the counter. Again, Natasha felt the nerves surge in her stomach, because bad things had followed breakfast at this counter, but things were quiet and warm and fine. Clint turned on the radio, and soft country folk songs hummed through the room. Natasha picked up yesterday's newspaper, and reveled in the mundanity of living life with Clint.

He never said anything to acknowledge the fiasco that had been their last breakfast together, simply kept up an easy smile and light conversion. But when they cleared away their plates, Clint kissed her on the temple, as though to promise to never say such harsh words again. Natasha closed her eyes, and acknowledged that it felt so, so good.

"So," Clint said, breaking her from her thoughts, "when do you wanna hit the store?"

"Hm?"

"We're going to go shopping, remember?"

Natasha blinked at him. Yes, she recalled them agreeing upon it, but that didn't mean she had reconciled with _actually_ shopping for her. The thought was bizarre, something that didn't quite fit with the picture she had of herself in her head. Natasha Romanoff's possessions filled a single, tiny room. They were tucked away in the closet or piled on her bed, cheap things to get her by.

She cast an eye around Clint's expensive, lovely home, and thought about _his_ clothes; the well-cut suits, the expensive shoes, the refined watches. And that was what he was offering her, money and durability and style. The permanence of it made her throat close up.

Natasha nodded at him, swallowing hard.

"Yes, I remember. I just—we're going to do that _today_?"

"That's what I was thinking. I mean, if you want to wait, to rest, then that's fine. I just thought it would be good to get you…something new."

Natasha watched Clint for a long moment, weighing the words ' _something new_ ' in her head.

Natasha Romanoff's possessions _had_ filled a single, tiny room. And then she had left that room, and her possessions filled a few bags. And now they could fill an entire _home._

"No, today sounds good," she said, giving him a smile she completely felt.

**the idea of 'things' thrills and scares her.**

Thankfully, Clint was wise enough _not_ to bring her to the exquisite, elegant stores he obviously frequented. They stopped at some simple, workable store filled with pretty, generic clothing. The luxury of it all still made Natasha's heart beat a little faster. And while there was still that thrill of doubt, of second thoughts of _I so very much cannot do this,_ there was also a lot of excitement.

"Go ahead, pick what you want," Clint said. Natasha gave him a look. He shrugged and smiled. He didn't say anything, but Natasha said the steadfast determination of ' _you deserve this_ ' in his eyes.

She let out a slow breath through her nose, and stepped a little farther into the store.

It wasn't very big, but it was filled with _a lot._ A few people littered the store, thumbing through items or waiting by the dressing rooms. Not a one of them gave Natasha more than a cursory look. It felt strange, walking amongst them, pretending to be like them, pretending to be normal, pretending that she didn't have years' worth of suffering and shame caked onto her skin. But then Natasha would catch sight of Clint, waiting for her, patiently biding his time until she was finished, and her stomach would flip, because she wasn't pretending. She was like them, just a woman shopping for some new clothes. The thought made her light headed.

On the whole, she thought she did very well. She may have been a little standoffish with the shop worker who asked her if she needed help, but a quick, apologetic smile seemed to make up for her tone. Clint mostly left her alone as she browsed through the shirts and pants, sometimes appearing by her elbow to glance over what she had picked out, but mostly wandering through the racks to give her enough time. After about twenty minutes in the store, though, he interrupted her.

"Natasha," he said, and she heard the smile in his voice, but she still felt very, very defensive, "you know you can buy more than three shirts, right?"

Natasha refused to look down at the clothing she had in her arms. In total, she had two shirts, a light jacket, and a pair of pants. She had found other things that had caught her eye, had pulled them off the rack to examine the pattern, the cost, the size, but some austere, reprimanding voice in her gut told her to _put that back_. Only the things Natasha felt she _really_ needed had been allowed to stay (though she had indulged herself with both the jacket, and a short sleeve shirt that Natasha _could not_ bring herself to put away).

"I have more than three shirts," she said flatly, meeting his eye. Natasha wasn't sure what she was trying to do, what impression she was trying to convey, but she was staring Clint down and daring him to tell her that she was wrong about…whatever it was she was trying to say.

He didn't rise to the challenge, though. Clint just gave a soft smile, looked down at the clothes again, and then looked back at her.

"I meant what I said about whatever you want," he said quietly. Natasha shifted, and glanced at a couple of shoppers a few racks away.

"I know."

"And do you want only that?"

Natasha gave him a long look.

"We could go somewhere else, after this."

"No, there's no need."

"Okay. Do you think that's really enough to help make up your wardrobe?"

"Yes, I'll be fine."

"Okay."

Clint didn't move away.

Natasha stared at him, trying to make him say whatever it was he was thinking so loud, trying to force him into some sort of action. But he simply stood there, in his worn jeans and shirt that had the sleeves pushed haphazardly up to his elbows, and waited for her to make her own decision.

Natasha reached out, and grabbed a sweater she had looked at, at least three times. He didn't react. She stared at him as she settled it into her arms, feeling self-conscious, daring him to make some snarky comment.

Clint smiled a little wider, touched her on the arm, and stepped away.

**she does not know what to do with all of the things that she can now call hers.**

Eventually, they checked out. Natasha felt nervous as she browsed through the clothing, the shirts and the sweaters and _pants_. Natasha couldn't remember the last time she had owned a pair of pants. She knew that, reasonably, it wasn't that much. But staring at all, spread out on the counter as the woman behind the counter smoothly registered each piece, Natasha felt like she was staring at a mountain. The anxiety from before kicked back up in her stomach, a sharp, overwhelming sensation of _how dare you._ These fine things were not meant for her. They were too luxurious, too wonderful. They were too delicate, they covered too much skin.

Natasha pressed into Clint's side, trying to anchor herself, trying to shake the Landlord's nasty sneer out of her head. Neither one of them said anything, but he slipped his arm around her waist, and he didn't bat an eye at the price.

After that, things went a little smoother. Natasha pointedly did not think about the bags in the back of the car that belonged to her, and she even let herself be coerced into a shoe store. Clint seemed to enjoy watching her wander the aisles, idly glancing over shoes, then freeze when she found a pair that she really liked. He gave his opinions on what he thought looked good on her, and did not comment on the fact that she only considered comfortable flats and tennis shoes.

Clint moved on from clothes to food, which was a little mercy to Natasha, because she didn't think she could manage another existential crisis at the cash register.

They perused the small aisles of the food mart, Clint picking out his typical, practical fare (plus a jar of seeded blackberry jam, which was handed to Natasha with a shameless smirk), while Natasha piled the cart high with everything she could think of. Anything that hadn't been practical in the boarding house was grabbed. Cans of soup, meat, fresh vegetables, drink mixes, and her favorite kind of bread all ended up in the basket, carefully arranged to fit as much in as possible. Clint had stared as she piled thing after thing into the cart, which had earned a gruff _'you said anything'_ from Natasha. His only response was, "Are you going to cook with all of that?"

Clint, apparently, was not much one to use his excellent kitchen.

Natasha hadn't thought too much about it before he said anything, but after she found herself becoming excited. Practically everything she had eaten in her grandparent's house had been handmade, and the prospect of being able to return to old habits filled her with a golden sort of energy. The store Clint had taken her to didn't have anything for the Russian dishes she had grown up with, but she fully planned to visit the Russian neighborhoods in the upcoming days.

Natasha helped Clint fit their groceries into the back of his car. They had settled back into their seats when he suddenly broke into laughter.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, covering his mouth and pulling into the street. "I just don't think my car has ever been so full of _stuff._ "

Natasha glanced back at where the inhabitants of her new life now perched, unassuming as they filled the back seat. This time, though, she wasn't attacked with pangs of anxiety over getting so much. She glanced back at Clint, then turned to face the front.

She wasn't the only one starting a new life, she had to remember.

**it is strange for her, being free.**

The next few days stumbled by in a blur. Natasha worked on settling herself into her new home, finding a place for all of her clothes, familiarizing herself with the kitchen, walking around the neighborhood and being able to appreciate the city during the day. She sometimes had nightmares, but they were fading fast, and Clint was always there to hug them away. Living a life worth having was scary, yes, but also entirely exhilarating.

The first two days, Natasha had worked with Clint to pull her life into some sort of order. He placed calls to whomever it was that needed to be called; his doctor, his lawyer, the bank, on and on. Natasha was surprised to see him work, to see the charismatic figure that bled through as he called these people and apologized for the inconvenience, but could he schedule an appointment tomorrow? The day after? No, that would be perfectly fine, and thank you for the help. This was his business façade, the smooth, complimentary smile that eased whatever he wanted within reach.

Natasha found it alluring, almost surprised to find another version of charm in the world. It wasn't the practiced, greased feeling the Landlord gave off, nor the compliant, seductive, submissive air that she and the other girls had given their customers. It was airy, comfortable and inviting as he asked just a little bit more than people wanted to give. And then Clint would wink at her, or give her a far more genuine smile than the one he had adopted for the person on the phone, and she would feel enveloped by the real care he had for her. Remembering that, remembering that he was doing this all for her, to help _her,_ made Natasha get through what came next.

The doctor's visit was possibly the most uncomfortable. The person she met with was pleasant and straightforward, a tiny woman from somewhere in the Pacific Islands. She breezed through Natasha's general fitness exam, then stood up and firmly suggested that she and Clint leave to let Natasha change into a hospital gown.

Clint picked himself up and left, even though Natasha begged him with her eyes to stay. She was getting through all of this because he had been there, he had been the firm, constant presence that held her hand and whispered that she was doing alright. And more than that, Natasha was very, very certain she did not want to be left alone in the face of definite answers to a lot of maybes.

When the doctor returned, she didn't ask about Natasha's earlier panic, nor her current standoffish air. Her pleasant manner stayed in place and she checked Natasha over, offering comforting conversation whenever Natasha was on the verge of lashing out from nerves.

The worst bit was when she had to give samples to check for diseases. Her hands shook as she swabbed the inside of her mouth, and she clenched her free hand when she had her blood drawn, terrified of the answers, terrified that maybe she was tarnished, she was unclean, she was disgusting and requiring more care than Clint possibly wanted to give.

Natasha grit her teeth at that thought, swallowed back all of those ugly, wild fears, and forced herself to smile as she thanked the doctor for her help.

"Do you...were you told about me?" she asked, staring at the doctor as she glanced over Natasha's clipboard.

"Told about what?" she asked, glancing up. Natasha swallowed, dragged in a breath, pushed it back out.

"What I—what I did," Natasha said, feeling strangely disjointed from the moment. The doctor tipped her head, and Natasha could feel her mind skipping to where Natasha's next words were about to go.

"I was a prostitute," she whispered, the truth so strange on her lips. The doctor tilted her head back, and her light expression turned a little heavier. She gave a slow nod, considering.

"Are you still?"

"No," Natasha told her. "Not anymore."

Everything after that had been comparatively fine. Going to the bank had been tedious as Clint had filled out form after form, been told Natasha needed such and such documents, this form of proof, that form of identification, and so on. Eventually they had had to stop, as Natasha didn't possess enough papers. What little remained of their day had been spent at various other tedious offices, as they tried to find all of the proper documentation Natasha needed that circumstance had made her go without.

When they finally staggered home, Natasha had pressed her face into Clint's chest, and stood very, very still. It was overwhelming. That was the only thing she could think, again and again and again. She couldn't do this, she couldn't take on a few years of catching up in her whole _lifetime,_ not now, not after everything. In another life, with her parents' help, after being guided along the whole way, maybe, but Natasha was certain that she couldn't just _become a person_ , not after spending years as someone the world had effectively forgotten about.

Clint put a hand on her head, and then the other on her back.

"I know," he whispered, not because he actually did, but because he felt for her, saw exactly how terrifying and difficult this was for her. "I know, Natasha, I know. You're doing great, though, I promise."

"It doesn't _feel_ like it," she scoffed, and she was completely unsurprised to find her throat closing up.

"I swear it's completely true," Clint told her, and kissed her forehead.

After those two days, though, Clint had to return to work. He had been hesitant when he brought it up, and Natasha could see the words ' _you're practically abandoning her'_ etched into the guilt of his voice. Natasha had just smiled, though, quietly disliking that she had turned herself into something that Clint had to take care of. In that moment, she resolved to be something more, something helpful, something that could honestly stand on her own two feet. She needed a schedule for herself, because she could not have Clint lay out every day for her. And also because Natasha knew that if she did not have some form of structure, she would break down completely.

Her morning routine was exact and wonderful. Clint had to get up early to go to work, and sometimes she would join him for breakfast, or sometimes would sleep in (she was still working on adjusting her sleeping schedule. She had gotten better, but the words 'seven in the morning' still made her groan). She would make breakfast, really make it, eggs and toast or oatmeal when she ate with Clint, or blini or rye bread and sausage when she missed home. Then she would meticulously get ready for the day afterward.

Showers had become Natasha's new favorite task of the day, the wonderful smells of shampoo and soap mixing together with the hot water and no one beating down the door. Choosing her outfit was another unexpected delight, as she looked through all that she had and chose how she wanted to present herself to the world. It was no longer a parade of clothes that were all equally trashy, meant to lure men in and demean her. Instead, each day she was faced with an array of different versions of herself. Each shirt and skirt and pair of pants offered a different definition to the person called 'Natasha', and she deeply enjoyed being able to choose who she was.

Then came the hard part. Once she was ready for the day, Natasha found herself alone in the townhouse. Clint did not come back until the evening, leaving her with hours to occupy. The time she was allowed was perhaps more intimidating than adjusting to life. At least then she _knew_ what she was supposed to do. But now she was faced with great big swathes of nothing, hours that expected filling and precious few things to fill them with. At a loss for anything else to do, Natasha turned to the last role she had been asked to fill: making a home.

The habits she had picked up in her grandparents' house returned with surprising ease. It almost made her laugh, the familiarity of using a vacuum, sweeping the floors, dusting the tv, and making the place appear loved. It took some work, but Natasha was recalling her system, the method of moving through room after room and making it shine. She turned on a movie as she worked downstairs, and then switched to music as she went up to clean the bedrooms and bathrooms.

Once the townhouse was clean, though, there was still time left to be spent. Natasha allowed herself a brief moment to eat lunch, and then she was back in the kitchen, making use of all the things she had bought from the grocery store. Rye bread, pirozhki, and meat dishes that her family had been especially fond of all made an appearance, as well as American dishes she had picked up, like apple pie, biscuits, and sandwiches. The smells of home took her to some place better, somewhere without the taint of the boarding house and the Landlord and all of those lonely days and hollow nights.

Clint, initially, was more than a little surprised.

"What's…this?" he asked, surprised by the sparkling house and the army of delicious smells coming from the kitchen.

"Home," Natasha said simply, and she did not pretend that the word didn't feel like heaven on her tongue.

Clint gave her a quiet smile, then walked over to give her a hug. Natasha turned her face up to kiss him, and received a quick peck.

"It smells great," he whispered in her ear, and for the first time in a long time, Natasha felt the happy flutter of pride in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was definitely one of the more difficult for me to write. I wanted to be very careful and clearly explain everything Natasha was feeling at recovering from the nightmare she had been living it. It was nice, but definitely intensive.


	24. the decency of he and she

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be about two more chapters, and then **eyes blue like your ice cold heart** will be complete.

"Time After Time"

Time after time  
I tell myself that I'm  
So lucky to be loving you

So lucky to be  
The one you run to see  
In the evening, when the day is through

I only know what I know  
The passing years will show  
You've kept my love so young, so new

And time after time  
You'll hear me say that I'm  
So lucky to be loving you

Margaret Whiting

* * *

**of course, things are not all perfect.**

Things were good. Natasha still had some trouble adjusting sometimes, but it wasn't anything serious. On occasion, she would get nightmares about the Landlord, or the boarding house, or her old life in general, but they were starting to lessen. Sometimes, she would find herself uncomfortable in the house alone, shocked by the solitude a home could bring. That was fixed by going out for a walk, and seeing the world she was once again a part of. They were little things, but they were getting better.

Everything else was fine. When Clint came home, they had dinner, talked about their day, watched tv. She thought about Gracia every day, and considered ways of getting her help. Natasha was starting to get to know the neighbors, and while there were questions in their eyes, no one was forthright enough to demand what this new, out of place woman was doing in Clint's home. She learned what it was like to be a person again.

But there were little things that did not quite fit. Natasha did not notice it at first; she was busy on figuring out her life to pay attention to the tiny, tiny details. In the morning, Natasha was used to Clint easing himself out of bed, then getting ready for work. If he left before she could drag herself out of bed, the slight remnants of his breakfast would be left behind, and she would take care of it. A pair of shoes that had been left in the hallway would be picked up and put in the closet, the archery case that had been forgotten on the table would be settled into its proper place on the shelf. It was part of her routine, part of her making this her home.

After a couple of days, however, she started to pay attention. She would notice that sometimes, there was no dirty bowl left behind on the counter, or Clint's shoes from the day before wouldn't be neglected by the door. Which made Natasha smile, seeing the effort he was making to not impose.

A little while later, she realized the trash was always taken out before she reached it. The dishwasher was unloaded before she made breakfast. The floor was swept before she even got up in the morning. And it didn't seem like little gestures. Natasha had no idea what they were, but she could tell that they were not. There was something _else_ causing this, something she did not understand.

She dismissed it, though, because who was she to say Clint couldn't clean his own house? Natasha found it annoying, because it messed with her system, but she would simply have to adjust.

That was until she noticed that it wasn't just the cleaning that was different.

Clint didn't touch her. He put his hand on her arm, or her shoulder, or even sometimes held her when they sat on the couch, but it was…stilted, hesitant, like he was afraid she might break. Natasha liked it at first, liked the idea of being precious, of not being pushed, but then it felt disjointed. Every time she tried to kiss him, he would give her a quick kiss and then pull away, smiling in a way that tried to pour all of his affection into a gesture he could not give.

And it wasn't that he stopped caring. Natasha knew, in her gut, that this was not distance growing between them, not some new problem that repelled Clint from being with her. It wasn't hostile, it was just _not right,_ and it nagged at her, because _this_ was supposed to be her happy ending, this was when problems were supposed to stop. Which, of course, she knew was ridiculous and didn't quite believe, _but still._ Things were supposed to be good, for a little while, at least. She didn't want to be fragile to him, she didn't want to be his burden, his charge, the thing he had to keep safe. She wanted to be _Natasha._

She kept quiet for a while, a part of her worried about making a mistake, about having guessed wrong. Wary about what this _thing_ was, Natasha tiptoed around it, ignored what was going on, tried to work around it. She didn't want to fight with Clint, not again, not when last time had been so heinous. She didn't want to be thrown out of yet another home.

But she could not stand being something that was admired every so often, and then put back on the shelf. She was a person, now. She was there with Clint to have a _real life,_ a life where she took care of things and tended to her house and was able to genuinely show that she cared for someone else. She wasn't the icy Russian girl. She was Natasha. And she could take a lot. But eventually, she snapped.

It was a little thing. One day, she went downstairs to tell him good-bye. The floors were swept, the laundry in the machine, the dishes all put away.

"What is this?" she asked, looking at Clint. He glanced at her from where he was putting on his shoes. He gave her a brief smile in form of hello, but she didn't smile back. "Why is all of this clean?"

"What?"

"Why is all of this done?" she asked, gesturing around at the spotless room. Clint blinked, frowning.

"I just cleaned up a bit—"

" _Clint,_ " she said, trying to not sound upset, but this was ridiculous and she refused to play games any longer. "We both know that this isn't just cleaning up. How early did you get up to do all of this?"

"I dunno," he said with a shrug.

"I can do it, I don't mind. Really."

"Natasha…" Clint began, standing up at looking at her. He was handsome in his blue-grey suit, hair styled for the day, face fresh and ready for work. Hardly the sardonic, crumpled figure that had called her to motel rooms. The unhappiness in his eyes was over the impending argument, not his life being in shambles around him.

He didn't finish what he was about to say, but instead picked up his bag.

"I'm sorry, I really don't mean to cut you off, but I have to get to work," he said. The resigned quality in his voice promised that they would continue when he returned home.

"Alright. But when you come home, we talk," she told him. Clint sighed, but gave a nod. Natasha liked that he still kissed her on the temple before he left.

**finally, she confronts him.**

The rest of the day was tense. Natasha left the stiflingly clean house in search of some distraction, trying to find the words she wanted to say to Clint. This wasn't a fight. It wasn't. This wasn't like last time, this wasn't where everything fell apart and they were left bleeding and mangled and all alone in the cold. They would work through this, they would figure it out. He had promised her that.

Finally, Clint came home. Natasha had been reading when the door opened, but she put down her book the moment he stepped through the door.

"Welcome home," she said, determined to keep her tone from being a challenge. She didn't need hard words here. She didn't need the knives in her voice, her conversations were no longer vicious combat.

"Thanks," Clint said with a smile. He set down his bag, and leaned against the table. "So what do you want to talk about?"

Natasha bit the inside of her lip, and stood up from the couch. She walked around so that nothing was in their way, and took a deep breath.

"Why don't you let me do anything?"

"Hm?" Clint leaned forward like he hadn't heard properly. Clearly, this was not the way he had expected her to begin.

"Why don't you let me _do_ anything? You've been cleaning up every day, more and more, when you _know_ that—" She cut herself off, silencing the accusation in her voice. " _I_ can do that, Clint."

"Natasha…" he began, then looked away. "It's really not a big deal. I just, I dunno, I feel kind of like a slob, with you cleaning up after me every day."

Natasha gave him a look until the immaculate house around them made him shift.

"I don't know what this is, but I know it's something."

"Okay, if you want to do it so bad, fine, I'll ease up," he said, unfolding his arms as if to hold the offer out to her. "See, no problem."

"That's not the only thing," she said quietly. Clint frowned at her, not knowing where she was headed next.

"…what? What is it?"

Natasha adjusted her stance, wondering how she could say this. It sounded childish in her head, pathetic and needy and not what she was, but it _bothered_ her, more than the cleaning had.

"You don't touch me anymore."

"What?"

A tension had crept into the room at her words. Clint was trying to act normally, but his shoulders were stiff, and his voice sounded strained. He worked his jaw, chewing the words over in his head. Natasha refused to let herself shrink back, even though her breath was shaky and she felt a little light headed.

"You don't…you don't _touch_ me. I mean, I'll sit with you, and you'll hold me, and that's nice, it really is, but you barely even _kiss_ me anymore, Clint. A part of me wonders if you don't care anymore, but then you go and do something wonderful, something nice and sweet and I _know_ that that's not it, but I'm just…I am very confused," she finished, the words sad and helpless on her tongue. She didn't resent it, though, didn't despise the weakness. It felt comfortable there, an honesty she was just learning to use.

Clint dragged in a breath, and stared at the ceiling.

"I didn't…I didn't want to push you."

"I get that, and I'm glad for it, really, but Clint…you treat me like I might break. I'm okay. I have problems, but here, at least, I'm _okay_."

"Natasha, I don't…it's gonna sound really, really _empty_ , but I swear, this is not about you."

"Then what _is_ it, Clint? I'm just want to understand!"

" _I know,_ I know that, I just…you are not here for that."

Now it was Natasha's turn to be confused.

"What?"

Clint looked away from her, hand raking through his hair. He was gritting his teeth like he wanted to speak, but didn't want to be the one to have to say it. Natasha felt her heart speed up, because she had _no idea_ what this was about, couldn't even begin to guess just what was causing the problem.

"You are _not_ here to—to _clean up_ after me, or to have _sex_ with me," Clint finally spat out, and the fine layer of disgust in his voice made her chest ache. "That's not why I got you out, you're here to have a _life._ You're here to learn what it's like to be _away_ from that place, not just be forced into another kind of—I don't—I refuse to let you think that—I'm not that guy."

Natasha stared at him, finally starting to understand the ugly reality he had been trying to hold at arm's length. She blinked, and looked down at the floor.

"You thought—"

 _"No,_ I never thought that, that's absolutely not why I—I didn't help you so that you could do the exact same thing as before, but just for me. You're not my _kept woman,_ or anything, here to make me happy or else I turn you onto the street, you're just… _Natasha_ , that's all. I never want you to feel obligated to _do_ things for me."

"So the cooking, and the cleaning, and not having sex—"

"I don't want you to do anything you didn't want to do."

"But I _want_ to do that, Clint!" she said, eyes wide because she could hardly believe what he was saying. A breathless laugh came from her throat, caused by sheer, relieved surprise. "I _want_ to cook, and clean, and _be_ with you! I want this place to be my home, I want to take care of it, like nothing happened to me, like I'm a normal person. I want this kind of normal, I want it with you."

Clint nodded, but he was staring at the wall, refusing to meet her eye. Natasha huffed and walked closer, demanding that he look at her.

"What is it? What is _so bad_ in your head? Where did you even get this? Why are you even thinking like that, I never even considered—"

"It's because of what he said," Clint said quietly. Natasha stared at him, once more confused.

"What—"

"Calvin Hughes _,_ the _Landlord,_ it's because of what he—when I was coming to get you," Clint said, grimacing like his words were vinegar. Natasha actually flinched at the sound of his name. The words stabbed at her, so wrong and out of place in Clint's home, with new clothes and the smell of good food in the air. That name didn't belong, shouldn't be allowed to hover and make things _awful._

She bit her lip, remember the hideous words the Landlord had spat at them, about how Clint was just like him, about how he was leading Natasha along to a slightly different kind of hell. Her mind rebelled at that idea, because for all his sweet words, the Landlord hadn't bought her new clothes, or found her a comfortable bed, or protected her from anyone. His care had been temporary, a lie.

Neither one of them said anything for a long moment, both trying to choke down their thoughts.

"What he said, about me—"

"I know it's not true," she told him. "I know you are better than that. The-the Landlord , he…he is a vicious, nasty human being. And you..." She flapped her arms helplessly, uncertain how to verbalize all of the _good_ Clint had done for her in the last few days.

Clint shook his head, and smoothed his hand back over his hair. He looked so, so very tired.

A part of her was startled by how _a_ _ffected_ he had been by the Landlord's malice, shocked that the calm, impervious man that had stood between her and a monster hadn't been as invulnerable as she had thought. But, at the same time, she kind of liked it. He hadn't been defeated by any means, hadn't been reduced to a terrified, cowering mess like Natasha, but he also hadn't been an unfeeling giant. He had cared about how she saw him, about what it would look like outside of their private context. He had cared about what that would do to her.

"But…Natasha, I've already screwed this up once," he whispered, and the fear in his eyes cut through her soul. Again, she was faced with the broken, penitent man that had crawled to her on his hands and knees. "I wanted so bad to help you, I could barely think about anything else, but I really don't know if it's because I want _you_ to be happy, or if it's still about me, and Natasha, I _really_ don't know what I would do if I woke up one day and realized that it wasn't _you_ that I was doing this for."

She swallowed, and sucked in a breath. She hadn't let herself think about the uglier possibilities of their arrangement, of it suddenly not working, or not being all of the glorious things she had hoped it would be.

"Is that…do you think that's…likely?"

Clint shrugged and looked away from her. He stared into the kitchen, but started shaking his head.

"No," he said, voice so, so quiet. But not soft. Clint looked back at her, and he didn't have a little boy's blue eyes any more. They were too grim in their solid determination for that. "No, I don't think that's ever going to happen."

"So why…?"

"I just—I don't want to see you _hurt_ , Natasha. On the off chance that I _am_ deluding myself, that I really am just the same terrible human being that I was…I can't hurt you again. I can't do that."

Natasha looked up at the ceiling. When the lump in her throat relaxed enough for her to breathe normally, she looked back to him.

"I love that you are looking out for me, but Clint, I can do this. I've taken care of myself this far."

"I know, but—"

"Clint," she said softly, and smiled. "Please, believe me. You are _not_ the monster you're afraid of being."

He shook his head, but the jagged unhappiness in his posture was starting to bleed away.

"You don't know that. No one could possibly know until—"

"Clint," Natasha repeated, "we've come this far, and no selfish liar would bother with all of that. I promise you, we can handle whatever comes next."

He gave her another long look, the fear still there, the anxiety and doubt he probably hadn't let himself properly acknowledge still crouching in his face. He was asking her _are you sure?_ , and Natasha made sure the answer was in her smile. Clint swallowed, then gave a slow, slow nod.

"Okay. Okay. So…what _do_ you want to do next?"

Natasha frowned, and let out a sigh through her nose. The further repercussions of the Landlord's evil, the pervasive _unhappiness_ that affected them even _here_ bothered her, made her want to strike back. But this time, she actually believed that she had the power to make him bleed, as well.

"I want him to stop," Natasha said. The words were like gravel tumbling from her mouth. "I want him to go away, to be unable to hurt people ever again. I want to _make_ him stop."

"Okay," Clint said slowly, easing himself into this next issue. "How do you want to do this?"

"I don't know," Natasha said, giving a helpless shrug. "But I can't—I could not stand knowing that I did _nothing_ as he kept making people suffer."

Clint considered for another long moment, but his eyes were set.

"It's going to be hard," he told her. "It's going to be nasty. If you really want to make him stop, then we go after him. You could…if you wanted to, if you were sure, you could testify against him in court. Detail everything that happened, make sure he's arrested. It'll be bad, though, Natasha. He's going to have people in his pocket. They're going to try to hurt you, hurt your image, your value, your word. You won't be a person to them, you'll be…a prostitute."

Natasha had never loved him more than when he refused to let uglier words slide past his lips.

"That's okay," she said, giving a sad, but genuine smile. "I've been hit by bigger animals than that."

Clint didn't respond for a while, but then he said, "Okay. Then we'll do it. We'll try to stop him."

Natasha let out a breath, and again lightheadedness swept through her, but she did not drop to the floor. She relaxed, and let herself hug Clint for all she was worth.

**it's a plan, but also still very, very terrifying.**

Clint hugged her back, and this time it felt like he was holding her to him, trying to keep her there and safe for as long as he could. Natasha closed her eyes.

She was doing something. She was going to try to stop the Landlord, or at least stand up to him. Natasha really had no expectations for success, could barely wrap her head around the idea that she was _doing_ this, that she was allowed, that she was capable, but she had hope. She had hope that _maybe_ she could shake a few girls from his hold.

Natasha sucked in a breath, and grimaced into Clint's shoulder.

"What?" he asked in alarm, pulling back to look at her. She forced a half smile.

"Nothing, I'm fine, I just…I remembered."

"Remembered…what?"

Natasha hesitated, then barreled on. Clint had proved that he wasn't going to simply cast her out. If she had learned anything, it was that.

"There…back in the boarding house, there was this girl I was…very close with. She couldn't take care of herself, so I stepped in to help."

"What happened to her? Is she still there?"

"Yes, I had to leave her behind."

"Couldn't she get out, too? I mean, I totally get that this is hard, but if she wanted to leave…"

Natasha closed her eyes at the memory of Gracia's tear streaked face.

"She's a little girl, Clint."

His face didn't fall, exactly, but Natasha saw just how it darkened, slowly becoming grim. He set his jaw, and nodded.

"I want to help her, I promised her," Natasha blurted, and her stomach swooped at the sound of her own words, but she knew that she would never be able to live with herself if she stopped now. "She's the main reason why I went back, I had to say goodbye. And I promised her, no matter what, that I would come back and help her."

"So what do you want to do?"

"I need to get her out of there," she said, and it felt so, so good to be able to tell someone else. "She can't stay there, the Landlord and the other girls will take her apart. And I didn't want to bring it up just yet, because you've already done so much for me, and I don't know just what she'll need, but it'll be a lot, and—"

"Natasha."

"—don't feel obligated at all, this is my problem, I promised her, not you, so don't feel like you—"

" _Natasha_ ," Clint repeated, taking ahold of her arm. She cut herself off, and stared at him. "Okay. Whatever you need, whatever she needs, it's fine. I'm here, I'll take care of it."

"This really is my problem. You don't have to be a part of this if—"

"I want to be," he said, voice turning hard once more. "This little girl…shouldn't be left there. What's her name?"

"Gracia," Natasha whispered, suddenly missing her quiet, insightful manner, and the way she gave hugs like they were the last thing she would ever do.

"Gracia," Clint said, trying the name out. "Once we get the ball rolling on the Landlord, see just how hard this is going to be, I promise, we'll go help her."

Natasha nodded, and her breath caught, because this…was unreal. It was difficult and intimidating, but satisfying and promising and hopeful and done with her own two hands. _She_ was doing something for once, making decisions and causing things to happen, not merely responding to the careless actions of others. She was changing the world, bit by little tiny bit. It was a good feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hueh hueh hueh you guys thought i was going to do something catastrophic when i said 'the next conflict' last chapter, didn't you?


	25. a greatness you could not see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fast update because you all deserve your happy ending :)

"The Dog Days are Over"

Happiness hit her like a train on a track  
Coming towards her stuck still no turning back

She hid it 'round corners and she hid it under beds  
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled  
With every bubble she sank with her drink  
And washed it away down the kitchen sink

Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back  
Struck from a great height by someone who  
Should know better than that

The dog days are over  
The dog days are done  
Can you hear the horses?  
'Cause here they come

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father  
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers  
Leave all your love and your longing behind  
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

Florene + the Machine

* * *

**they find a lawyer, they set up a case.**

Meeting with Clint's lawyer was intimidating. The man didn't seem very impressive, but he looked at Natasha like he was cutting off her mask with a big pair of scissors.

His name was Anthony Warwick, he was short with broad shoulders, his eyebrows always seemed to be raised in cynical questioning, and he had a clipped accent she thought was from California. He shook her hand once outside of his office, but paused before he let them in.

"Clint, can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked. Natasha glanced between them, very, very certain that she did not like the sound of that. Clint hesitated, then gestured for Natasha to enter the office. He had a frown that matched hers.

Natasha walked into the office, and settled into one of the arm chairs facing the desk. She looked back at Clint and Warwick, less than relieved to find that Clint's frown had evolved into a full on scowl. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek. Everything was fine, she was fine. No need to worry.

In a moment, both had returned to the room. Clint sat next to her and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She gave him a questioning look, but Clint just shook his head.

"You'll see in a sec," he said, eyes still on Warwick. Natasha turned back to the lawyer.

Warwick flipped on a recorder, then gave her a long look. Natasha fought the urge to fidget, uncertain she wanted to know just what Warwick was seeing in her. His gaze wasn't one that offered much place to hide. He took a slow breath, then straightened. Warwick skipped through the pleasantries, instead shooting out devastatingly straightforward questions.

"Why are you going after this man? He offered you shelter, didn't he? Don't you owe him anything?"

" _No_ ," Natasha said, startled into an answer. Heat was snapping through her chest, shocked that he would dare make such a statement. Natasha glanced at Clint, shocked by the man's aggressive manner, but he was just watching Warwick with narrowed eyes. "I owe him _nothing."_

"Oh? Seems that he protected you from the dangers of the street. It's an ugly world, a woman by herself in the city."

Natasha flashed back to her dark, dingy time on the subway, to the long, cold days, and the heartbreaking kindness of a man she was barely allowed to know. Sitting on the subway with Devon had been so much safer than hiding in one of the Landlord's rooms.

"He wasn't _protecting_ me, he was ruining my life."

"So is this vengeance? Are you simply trying to get ahead? Benefit however you may from him going to jail? Prostitution's a quick fix, but maybe you have something more planned."

Natasha shot another look at Clint again, wondering why the _hell_ he wasn't protesting at his lawyer's verbal assault. He met her eyes, and she was shocked to find that while they were unhappy, they were also encouraging. He tilted his head ever so slightly, like he was telling her to go on. Natasha swallowed and turned back to Warwick, anxiety lacing her indignation.

"I'm doing this because he is a despicable human being. No one deserves to be under him."

"But he deserves to go to jail? That's a hard thing to swallow. He's been giving dozens of girls shelter, just like he did for you. Some would say that's a charitable thing."

Natasha straightened, feeling her anger harden into ice. It was almost alarming, how easily she slipped back into her old clothes of condescension and frost.

"He stole _everything_ from me."

"So the rent's a little high. Move somewhere else."

Natasha broke into a cold laugh. The taste of ice was suddenly bitter on her tongue. Why hadn't Clint done anything yet, what was he waiting for? Did he think this was a battle she had to fight for herself? She didn't want to fight this, she was done with being the icy Russian girl. She didn't want to have to sit here and be judged for things she honestly could not have controlled.

"He wouldn't let me."

"Why not? It's just a matter of walking out the door. After all, isn't that what you did?"

"He wouldn't _let_ me. You wouldn't understand."

"It seems a lot like there isn't anything to understand. You've brought us here with some serious accusations, but have no evidence to back it up. This appears to be a conniving prostitute looking to smear the name of a wealthy business man that has decided to offer her some help."

Natasha glared at the man, too viciously angry to speak. She felt like she was choking on her disappointment and betrayal. She was going to leave. She didn't care what Clint thought about her behavior or the lawyer, she was going to get up and walk out of that room and never look back. There had to be someone else she would go to, someone that didn't look her as a self-serving, bitter whore.

"I don't mean to come off as a real asshat," Warwick said abruptly, his posture relaxing almost instantly. Natasha blinked at him, alarmed by the sudden shift. A part of her was still clinging to the ice, screaming that she maintain the last defense she had and stalk out of the room altogether, but was suddenly wondering if she even needed to defend herself.

"Hard as it may seem, I wanted you to see what it would feel like, being in court. That was why I asked Clint to step aside for a moment, see how you took care of yourself," he said, nodding at Clint. Natasha stared at him, still a little confused, but Clint squeezed her hand again.

Warwick took off his glasses, and braced his hands on the desk. He watched Natasha for a long moment, picking out his words.

"I want you to know that I have the deepest respect for you and your situation. But this is a nasty piece of work you just walked in with, and if we get to court, the lawyers against you won't be any nicer. They're going to cut you apart, because you're the main thing between your former pimp and a dropped case."

Natasha gave a jerky nod, her jaw set. She still wasn't sure if she believed him.

"Clint explained the basics to me over the phone," Warwick continued, and now his eyebrows lowered into an unhappy line. "What you did was…very, very brave. And I admire your desire to see this through, and have this man arrested, but you by no means have to appear in court for it."

"You just said I was basically the only thing that could send the Landlord to jail."

"I suppose," he admitted, then rocked back on his heels. "You would certainly help. A witness with so intimate a testimony, that's excellent. But you have a pretty bad image, if we're being honest."

"That's because he made it that way."

"Doesn't matter. It's an ugly history that they're going to play off of, like I just did, and I don't even know all the facts."

"So there's no point?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just saying you need to prepare yourself."

Natasha tilted her head, and gave him a humorless smile. She had done much, much worse.

"If…" he began, then hesitated. "If there were any others that could appear...there would be more we could do."

Natasha thought about the myriad of scared, macabrely interested faces on the stairs as she had left. Certainly there were girls that were angry and wanted to speak out. Alexandria's face snapped into her head, not the twisted, spiteful thing she was accustomed to, but the one full of stark fear when the Landlord had broken up their fight and ordered the other woman down to his room. She had been just as hurt as by the Landlord as Natasha had been. Except, the next day she had been twice as vicious.

"I don't know," Natasha admitted. "I…I think I'm the only one that has ever chosen to leave."

"But after the Landlord is arrested, they'll be free to speak. If they do testify against him, then he's certainly going to prison."

Natasha shook her head.

"You don't understand," she repeated.

Warwick sighed, and folded his arms.

"If you're going up to the stand, first thing you need to do is not shut down."

"What?"

"Any time something hard comes up, you close yourself off, and then snap out the nastiest things you can think. That's not going to fly. You need to be open with us, as open and brutally honest and you possibly can be."

Natasha frowned, a finger of dread going up her back. Honesty was not something she was good at. She looked at Clint, who was now watching her. She kept her eyes on him when she spoke next.

"I—I'm not very good at that."

"I know, that's fine. We can work on it. But this isn't about _you,_ Natasha, remember that. When I was attacking you earlier, I made it about you, I isolated you and made it seem like it was just you coming up with wild stories. That's what they're probably going to do, especially if we can't get any more witnesses. But you need to make it about _everyone._ This isn't one woman being hurt, this is _dozens._ It's not _'me',_ it's ' _us_ '."

**she is shocked and touched by the trust of this stranger.**

She nodded, breath coming a little faster, because this was real, this was a validation she had never before hoped to have. Clint believing her and trusting her was very different from a stranger accepting her word as fact.

"Contacting the police and arranging a raid will hardly be a problem," Warwick continued, finally sitting down. "I know some people on the force that would be more than eager to get him off the streets. But it'll be pushed through fast, so we've got to start on this now."

He pulled out a pen and a notepad, and looked at Natasha.

"I need you to explain all of this to me."

"A-all of it?"

"Honesty, remember?"

"Yes, but…there's a lot." He nodded, but didn't look fazed.

"I don't need everything right now, but it's best to cover the basic details. Where did you live, how long, what did you do, what was your pimp called, stuff like that."

"We called it the boarding house," Natasha began, and it seemed so, so surreal. She focused on the window behind Warwick's desk, but held tight to Clint's hand the entire time. "I lived there for a few years. It was small, the rooms just big enough for a closet, a dresser, and a bed. He had dozens of girls, each got a room."

"And they were all prostitutes?"

"Yes."

"Did you receive customers in the boarding house?"

"No, never. We always went to the street, or he told us where to meet our customers."

"And what kind of people were these customers?"

"The drive-by customers, the ones we picked up on the street, they were anybody. But the regulars, the ones he told us to go see, they were businessmen, usually."

"What kind? Paper pushers, or CEOs?"

"They weren't normally powerful men. We weren't expensive enough for that."

"What was his name?"

"What?"

"Your pimp, the one that ran the boarding house and told you where to go. What was his name."

"The Landlord, he is—he—Calvin Hughes," she choked out. The words felt wrong in her mouth, they didn't belong there. She wasn't allowed to give a name to the monster that had run her world.

Warwick paused, and when he spoke again, he voice was almost gentle. "I assume those came from him."

Natasha gave him a confused look, and then Warwick brushed his knuckles against his cheek. She straightened, heat rushing through her face.

The bruises. She had almost forgotten them. She didn't have to put on an attractive face every day, not any more. She didn't have to fret over first impressions and turning her face just so until she had been paid.

Her hand jumped up to touch the mark on her cheek, but she pulled it back at the last second. Natasha grit her teeth, and nodded.

"He do that a lot? Hit you?"

"Sometimes," she managed, and she felt Clint's grip tighten on her hand. "Sometimes he didn't leave marks."

"Would he only hit you?"

"No. He would throw things, destroy a girl's room, or yell. He yelled...a lot."

"Alright, Natasha, I want you to take pictures of it. Any bruises or marks he left on you, take pictures the moment you get home. We can mark it as—how long ago was it? That bruise on your face, when did that happen?"

"A week or so ago. When I left."

"What happened?"

"I—I was leaving, I had my bags. But he stopped me in the foyer, grabbed me and told me to go back. He hit me, and—and then Clint came."

"Clint?"

"Yes. He offered to help me, said he'd come pick me up. And when I didn't come out on time, he—he came in for me."

"Did he?" Warwick asked, finally looking at Clint. He did not seem ecstatic to hear of Clint's intervention.

"Yes. The Landlord told him to leave, but he didn't, and when he—when he hit me again Clint stopped him."

" _How?_ "

"I hit him back," Clint said, voice part sheepish, part defiant. Warwick leaned his head back, and cursed at the ceiling.

"Dammit Barton, I wish you had not done that. How'd you hit him?"

"I punched him once, in the jaw."

"Okay, anything _else?"_

"No, he let go of her after that."

"And you simply walked out?"

"We left," Natasha confirmed. "He screamed at me the whole time, though."

"What did he say?"

"He threatened me. He didn't say what, but he said that he would do much worse than what he had done before."

"Alright," Warwick sighed. "Alright, we'll come back to that later. Now, Natasha, how did you meet Clint?"

Natasha shifted in her seat, and glanced at Clint. She didn't want anyone to know how they had met, the ugly beginning that cast such a dirty light on Clint. But he nodded at her, encouraging her to go on.

"I…he hired me," she whispered. "Over a year ago, he picked me up off the street."

Warwick nodded, clearly Clint had told him this before, and gestured for her to go on.

"We…he'd call for me every few weeks. And…things worked out."

"How?"

Natasha frowned at Warwick. She didn't know _how._ She didn't know how she had ended up cutting Clint's hair one night, telling him about her family and how they had died, or how he had explained his own dreary beginnings in return. She didn't know how she had come to care so much that she would save him from a loan shark, or how he would care to demand the details behind her own terrible bruises.

She did not know how she had moved from seeking shelter with him, to being heartbroken and hating him, to trusting him again. She didn't know _how._ She just knew _why._

"It just happened," Clint supplied, once more impossibly strong in the face of Natasha's weakness and fear. "I…started to care for her. And I guess the same happened with her, so I...I offered her help."

"You're not making this easy on me," Warwick sighed, scowling at Clint. Clint, for his part, shrugged. Natasha wondered very much how these two had met, and where they had gone from there. "But okay. Okay. This is a good place to start."

Warwick continued to siphon out the details, and Natasha slowly, slowly began to calm. When Warwick stood to send them off, Natasha held out a hand to stop him.

"Mr. Warwick," she began, then hesitated. "There's…there's another matter."

"And that is?" He looked like he was bracing himself, preparing for whatever misfortune she had left. Natasha swallowed.

"A little girl. There's a little girl in the boarding house, one of a few, but this one…Gracia, she…I would like to see if we could...if it's possible…if she could stay with us?"

He eyed her, and Natasha felt the question _is she yours?_ hovering on his tongue. But he simply nodded and held out his hand.

"I'll see what I can do," he told her. Natasha nodded, glanced at the ground, then looked back up.

"If...if I can talk to her, I'm sure we can get her to testify. Will that...will that help?"

"...Yes, Natasha, that would help very much. Thank you."

"Thank you," she said, the words popping out of her mouth before she had time to think. Warwick met her eye, gave her hand one solid, solemn pump.

**it starts to feel real, and that is terrifying. but she does it, step by step, waiting to not be so afraid. it slowly happens.**

Natasha and Clint followed Warwick's advice. When they went home, Clint took pictures of the bruises on Natasha's body, which was its own sort of incredible discomfort. Natasha had to hold her hands tight to keep them from shaking as Clint took photos of the remains of her split lip, the painful stains on her cheek, shoulder, and arm. Clint didn't say anything as he documented her abuse, just set a steady hand on her uninjured shoulder. Natasha set her hand over his.

After that, they were simply left to _wait_ , which was agonizing. Natasha and Clint went through their days, trying to be patient, trying to be smart and not rush into ruining things. One thing that did help slightly was that Warwick had given Natasha the name of a psychologist he thought would work well with her.

"She works with domestic trauma," he had told her, and at the time it seemed so very _strange,_ the word 'domestic' being applied to her time in the boarding house. But Natasha had taken the little card he handed her, and set up an appointment. So far it seemed like nothing more than conversation between the two women, but Natasha didn't mind. It helped fill up her day, at least.

Then, they received a call from the police station. Natasha's heart was in her mouth the whole way down, because she was very, very used to the police being at best a nuisance and at worst a threat. But the detective that spoke with them was straightforward and kind, introducing himself as Detective Goldman like they were his new neighbors and not part of a terrible crime. He was even polite as he asked for as many details as Natasha could provide about the Landlord and his operation. She, on the other hand, was nervous and she spoke too fast, and at one point Natasha had to leave the room because she thought she was going to vomit, but she did it. She told the man every single thing she could without breaking into hysterics or the Landlord beating down the door.

Sitting in the car with Clint afterward was the sweetest thing she had done all week.

"That was brave," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It was harder than it should have been," she said, because she still felt embarrassed and frustrated and completely not certain what to do with compliments. Clint smiled, shook his head, and kissed her jaw before pulling out of the lot.

The best thing about this waiting period was Warwick's call about Gracia.

"It's not for sure," he prefaced his news, "but I think, _think_ , you can give her a place to stay. I talked to some people with child services. It's going to be sticky, real sticky, but I think we can manage her staying with you. There will be more court dates to determine if you're suitable, but I'm sure we can deal with that."

"Really?" she breathed, a little afraid of saying the word too loud.

"Yes. Like I said, it's not for sure, but Natasha…you've got a fair reason hope."

"I—I—thank you, oh, thank you so much. Does Clint—have you told him yet?"

"No," Warwick said, and Natasha was _certain_ he was smiling at her through the phone. "I'll let you tell him that bit of news."

"It's all coming together," Clint said that evening, after she had told him about Gracia. He looked _proud_ , maybe, like he was really, really pleased about what she had done. Natasha smiled at him, because she was starting to allow herself to think the same thing, too. Of course, she didn't let herself become _too_ confident, things always went very, very bad when that happened, but she started to feel confident in being able to make a change.

"So how do you want to do this?" he asked, brow furrowing slightly. Natasha frowned, not sure she understood. "I mean, Gracia. Detective Goldman said that when they raid the place, everyone's being grabbed up. Gracia and all the other kids will be put into child services right away."

Natasha's heart beat a little quicker at the thought. Warwick had made it clear that if they couldn't make a very, _very_ good case about why Gracia should stay with them, their chances about keeping her went down considerably. If she was pulled into the system right from the beginning…well, Natasha didn't _know_ what would happen, but she felt in her stomach that it would be very difficult for her to see the little girl afterward.

"What _can_ we do?" Natasha asked Clint, no longer afraid to quietly admit that she did not know what to do.

He considered her for a moment, leaning against the counter in what had come to be a wonderfully familiar pose. He tilted his head at her and shrugged.

"We get her out of there."

"Take her? We can't go back there, you know that."

"Yeah, I do. But I also know that if she wanted to, she could run away from there."

"Gracia's just a little girl. She couldn't walk out of the boarding house like I did, _I_ barely even made it. If she—if she—" Natasha cut herself off, grimacing at the thought of what the Landlord might do to her.

"I know." Clint's voice was mild, but there was an undertone that made Natasha give him a hard look. She couldn't quite tell what it was, but it was flippant in a steady sort of way, like he was seriously considering something that would make Warwick groan and put his head in his hands, but that he was almost certainly going to do it anyway.

"So…?"

"We go pick her up. She goes out, right, onto the street corners? Yeah, so when she goes out, we're there. We arrange it with her, let her know what we're planning, and then we can just take her back here. She won't be there when they raid the boarding house, she'll be safe with us."

"If she leaves before it happens—"

"The detective said that they were going to go in around the time that all of the girls get back. No one's going to miss Gracia in that time."

Rae would, Natasha was certain of it. Between the trial of supporting Natasha and her own stupid, intoxicating way of dealing with the suffering, Rae would rely on any helping hand she got. But this wasn't about Rae. This was about a little girl that had been thrown to the wolves.

"Is this okay?" she asked, already agreeing with the idea, but still hesitating at the idea of breaking the law. She was just starting off as a normal citizen again, she didn't need anything more to her record. Plus, she liked Warwick despite their rocky start, and didn't want to earn one of his exasperated-at-Clint looks.

"I think we're in a grey area," Clint said. "But I will talk to Warwick, make sure he knows what's up."

Natasha gave a slow nod, then went a little faster as she decided. "Okay. Okay. Let's do it. I want to do this. When…?"

"Tomorrow, I think. That way, I have time to call Warwick, make sure he at least knows what we're about to do."

"Okay," Natasha repeated, speaking through her fingers.

Rescuing Gracia had always felt like a strange, abstract notion. When she had promised her and handed over the puzzle box as a sign that she would come back, Natasha hadn't had anything more than a compulsion to fit into her head. There was no timeline, nothing to make it a reality. Even the small blanket Gracia had given her in return had sat on a chair in Clint's bedroom, a reminder for some hypothetical situation that someday would become practical. Now she was planning, more than that, now she _had_ a plan and was on the verge of enacting it.

Clint smiled at her and Natasha gave a tired smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Warwick. I wish there was more I could do with him, but alas, not in this story.


	26. bring your wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I've said this all before, but I have loved writing this story, and have loved discovering new things about Natasha and myself along the way.
> 
> An enormous shout out goes to my two lovely betas; Bess, who has been with me from the beginning, and counseled me on what to do when things began getting dark, and Shaz, who came in without question, but also let me know when things got TOO dark. This story would quite literally be a completely different beast than what it is now without you, and I thank you a thousand times over for doing this with me. And, of course, a thousand kisses and thank yous to the people who have stuck with me and this story, even when things were very, very bad. I promised you all that you would get your happy ending. Here it is.
> 
> There will be a companion epilogue to **eyes blue like your ice cold heart** called **come rain or come shine,** so please keep an eye out for that.
> 
> And thank you again.
> 
> Warning: mentions of child prostitution

"Level Up"

If you are afraid, come forth  
If you are alone, come forth now  
Everybody here has loved and lost  
So level up and love again

Call it any name you need.  
Call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever-  
So long as you can feel it all,  
So long as all your doors are flung wide.  
Call it your day number one in the rest of forever.

If you are afraid, give more  
If you are alive, give more now  
Everybody here has seams and scars  
So what, level up

And this is all we need  
And this is where we start  
This is the day we greet  
This is the day, no other.

Vienna Teng

* * *

**they find the little girl on a street corner.**

_'Nervous'_ was not something Natasha liked being. She _liked_ to think of herself as in control, master of who she was and how she felt. Lately, however, she had begun to realize just how very out of control everything had been, and started to correct things.

That did not mean she was at all okay with the jitters in her stomach as Clint drove them over to her old part of town.

She watched the street lamps become progressively dingier, the sidewalks filthier, the people seedier. When she saw the first girl on the street, her stomach seized altogether.

Natasha closed her eyes, and let out a slow, slow breath. This wasn't about her, this was about _Gracia._ She could do this for Gracia.

"Which block does she normally stay on?" Clint asked quietly, and Natasha opened her eyes.

"The next one down," she whispered. "There's at least one other girl with her, watching over her."

"And how long does _that_ last?" Clint asked darkly. It was not a question that he actually wanted her to answer.

Natasha's breath caught when she saw Gracia's silhouette on the sidewalk, and clenched her hands. She wanted to leap out of the car and grab Gracia up at that second, but she forced herself to stay calm as Clint drove straight past. He parked about a block away, then turned off the car.

"The woman that was with her, did she see me go into the boarding house?" Clint asked. Natasha recalled the face of the woman that was standing a ways down from Gracia, trying to remember if she had seen her in the group when she had left.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "She was sick that day. The Landlord…she wasn't there to see you come in."

Clint nodded, and leaned over to kiss Natasha on the temple.

"Alright. I'll be back in a sec, okay? I'll leave the keys so you can keep the radio on. Lock the doors."

Natasha nodded, hardly able to speak as she watched him open his car door and get out. She watched him leave for a long moment, taking in how relaxed he seemed, just as casual as he had been when he first picked her up. Natasha turned back around in her seat. Clint knew how to play this game almost as well as she did.

Natasha hesitated, then climbed into the back seat. She locked the doors as instructed, then folded her arms. The lights inside of the car slowly faded to nothing, leaving her in the dark with the tired chatter of the radio. She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath, striving for the sense that she belonged, that she was just another person that lived in the bad part of town, that this expensive car she was sitting in was just as natural to her as a street corner.

Some people passed by, a few glancing in at her. She gazed ahead like she was too bored to notice them. She changed the station from an obnoxious commercial to some dj she immediately tuned out. Natasha resisted the urge to look around for Clint, instead kept looking ahead, normal as could be.

Conversation approached the car again, the quiet rumble of a man speaking. Natasha allowed herself one look, and felt her heart leap into her throat. Clint was returning, but now he had Gracia in tow. She was quiet and didn't respond to anything he said, mechanical and obedient. Natasha pressed her hand to her mouth, biting back tears, biting back the hard, disbelieving sob that was building in her throat.

She reached over and unlocked the door as they came closer. Gracia looked up at the noise, and then her face hardened. Natasha guessed that Gracia had made out her silhouette, but hadn't distinguished her features. Gracia said something to Clint, _the cost is different for more people,_ maybe, which earned a careless shrug. He opened the back door for her, and Natasha held her breath, nerves suddenly twisting her insides into a giant mess.

Gracia grimaced at the interior of the car for a moment, then got in. Natasha stared at her, waiting for Gracia to realize, waiting for her to look Natasha in the face and recognize her. When the little girl glanced over, she froze. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth opened in a small 'o'.

" _Natasha_?" she breathed, and Natasha couldn't hold it back any more, she broke into a loud, embarrassing sob and grabbed Gracia into the fiercest hug she had ever given.

" _Natasha!_ Natasha, I missed you, I missed you so much! I wasn't sure if I was going to see you again, I missed you I missed you _I missed you_ ," Gracia sobbed into her shoulder, tears soaking in almost instantly. Natasha wanted to speak back, wanted to say something kind and comforting, something that showed how constant Gracia was in her thoughts, but all she could manage was Gracia's name, over and over and over. She barely noticed Clint get into the driver's seat, quiet in the face of their reunion.

"Things have gotten bad, so bad," she said into Natasha's hair. "All of the girls are scared, the Landlord, he-he-he's mean to all of the girls, he's so angry all of the time."

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked, holding Gracia away from her to get a better look. The light in the car had again faded to nothing, but Natasha used the street lamps outside to examine Gracia closely.

The little girl's face was tired, as usual, but Natasha couldn't see any sign of a bruise or cut. She held Gracia's shoulders, hating the way her expression darkened.

"I'm okay," she mumbled.

" _No,_ hey, are you okay? Has he hurt you? Have any of the other girls done anything to you?"

"The girls are mean," Gracia said, shrugging. "But they…I don't know. They're always mean."

"But not because of me? Not because you were close to me?"

"No. Rae's got it worse, though."

"Okay, okay," Natasha said, closing her eyes. She opened them again, dread starting to abate. "But the Landlord hasn't hit you?"

Gracia looked at her for a long moment, but it wasn't like she was trying to decide how much to tell Natasha. She was reappraising her yet again, trying to discern just what had changed.

"No," she murmured. "He hasn't hit me."

"Hasn't done _anything_ to you?"

"He's…he's yelled, and I guess thrown some things. But nothing got me."

"Okay," Natasha repeated, and hugged her again. "I missed you so much, Gracia, _so much._ "

"Why are you _here_ , though? What if he catches you?"

"We're here for you, Gracia," Natasha told her, breaking into a big, teary smile. Gracia's eyes widened, as though she couldn't believe what she was hearing. She licked her lips, and frowned.

"Here…here for me?"

"Yes. I told you I'd come back, I promised. And I wanted to tell you that we have a plan?"

"Plan?"

"Yes. We're—" Natasha glanced at Clint, gathering her strength. Gracia's eyes flicked in the same direction, but she didn't turn around. "We're going to try and stop the Landlord. I won't tell you the details, just in case, but I want you to know that we're getting you out."

"Right now?" Gracia asked, perking at the thought. Natasha bit her lip, hating the thought of stalling this girl's freedom yet again, but she shook her head.

"No, Gracia, not right now. I wish I could, I really, really do, but…you've got to wait. Just two more days, alright? Two more days, and then we'll be right here to take you home."

"Home?" she whispered, like she was tasting the word for the first time. Natasha nodded, breaking into a smile as new tears pricked at her eyes.

"Yes, honey, home. Clint and I, we want you to live with us. I am so sorry we can't take you now, but if you leave, the Landlord might suspect something."

Gracia clicked her teeth together and nodded. "Okay."

"Do you understand why? I don't want you to leave, not again, but we _have_ to make sure that he can't do this anymore. Please, Gracia, I don't want to ask, but—"

"It's okay, I can do it," she said, giving a brave smile. "When—when will you come back?"

"In two days, so tomorrow, then the day after that. It'll be just like this, you'll go out like normal, and we'll come pick you up."

"Same place?"

"Yes, same place. I _promise_ we'll come get you."

Gracia nodded, and hugged Natasha again.

"Please don't be late," she whispered into her ear, and Natasha had to bite her cheek to keep from letting the tears fall.

"I swear we won't. Do you believe me?"

"You came back this time, like you told me," Gracia said, sitting back. She wiped her nose, and nodded. Natasha brushed a lock of hair back from her face, trying to make up for the words she would have to say next.

"You—you should probably go back," Natasha said, nodding at the street outside. Gracia glanced back through the window, but stayed still.

"Do I—just a few more minutes?"

"Of course," Natasha said, and let the little girl settle against her side. She dragged in a breath, her soul _aching_ for this to be real, for this to be them finally whisking Gracia away, for them to be _free._

Natasha's eyes found Clint's, and he gave her a quiet smile. She smiled back, desperately praying that she would not break into breathless, pathetic sobs. Not now, not when she had to ask Gracia to be strong as she sent her back into chaos.

Eventually, Gracia straightened and smoothed her shirt. It _hurt_ Natasha, seeing the way the little girl pulled her own form of ice into her eyes.

"Be careful," Natasha whispered, smoothing her hair. Gracia nodded, and gave her one last hug, then carefully got out of the car. Clint got out as well, calling for her to hold on. Natasha closed her eyes when she saw him pull out his wallet and give Gracia a few large bills to seal the deception.

That night in bed, Clint and Natasha held each other very, very close.

**her stomach is tight for the next few days.**

Natasha made herself not think about just how devastatingly _wrong_ things could go while she waited for the day of the raid. If she did, if she allowed just the tiniest anxiety to control her thoughts, suddenly she would be unable to move. So instead, Natasha did productive things.

She continued her regimen of cooking and cleaning, but now included the spare bedroom. Natasha opened the windows, aired out the bed, cleaned off the accumulation of dust, and strived to make the place seem like it was meant for Gracia, and Gracia only. Natasha had wanted to go out and buy some clothes for the little girl, so that she wouldn't be forced to experience the same overwhelming onslaught that Natasha had, but the fact that she had no idea what her size was kept Natasha from bringing the subject up to Clint.

Clint seemed to be as nonchalant as ever, like nothing particularly unusual was about to happen. Natasha initially thought that he was perhaps more in control of himself than she was, but then she remembered that he had perfected his own sort of pretend. She had seen the hard, devastated look in his eyes as he had watched Gracia in the street. He wanted her out of there, just as much as Natasha did.

The day before the raid, Natasha received another call from Detective Goldman. She was surprised when she heard his voice on the other end of the phone, and instantly her insides clenched. They couldn't do the raid, the Landlord had caught wind of the plan, something had gone terribly, _horribly_ wrong, and it was all Natasha's fault, it was all because she had been so arrogant as to think she could wander back into her old, abysmal world and pluck Gracia out of there.

"Miss Romanoff, good morning," he said, and Natasha squeezed out a hello. "I was just calling to iron out a few more details about the raid tomorrow."

"Details?" she managed, then swallowed down the rest of her anxieties. "What-what details?"

"This…eh, well, it's a discouraged thing, but if you want to be there, at the time of the raid, or at the precinct when we take that bast—Calvin Hughes in, then…you can."

"I can be there?" she asked, a little surprised.

"Yes. As long as you're back away from the action and don't get involved, you can come watch."

Natasha considered standing there in the street as the police shook out the rat's den, as they hauled the Landlord and his prostitutes out into the road for all to see. She could be there to watch as the Landlord's kingdom came tumbling down, to see his face when he saw it was her doing this _,_ the girl he had abused and misused for far, far too long.

"No, thank you," she said, leaning back against the counter.

"No? Are…are you sure? I promise no one would bother you."

"No, I'm certain. I just…I don't need that." She could hear Detective Goldman's slight disbelief humming through the phone. "I…I don't need to see that. I'm getting all I could want as is."

Detective Goldman was quiet for a moment, then he cleared his throat.

"Alright," he said softly. "I—I understand your decision."

Natasha smiled and thanked him for the offer, then hung up the phone. It was always a strange thing to her, feeling someone else's respect.

**they go and save the little girl.**

Natasha didn't need to stand there and watch the Landlord be arrested, but she did need to go back and get Gracia. Mere hours after her talk with the detective, Natasha found herself in the backseat of Clint's car, waiting, waiting, waiting. She smoothed her hands over her lap, hardly able to stand the quiet of the world around her. It didn't feel like it should be so quiet, it felt like the whole world should be chattering and talking and discussing the perils of what she was doing.

Natasha glanced back, and felt her stomach relax when she saw Clint and Gracia once more approaching the car. Gracia still didn't look comfortable next to Clint, but she also wasn't maintaining strict distance from the night before.

She held her breath as Clint again opened the door for Gracia, and she climbed in beside Natasha. Instantly, her arms were wrapped around Natasha's neck, and the little girl was sobbing incoherently into her shoulder. Natasha held her tight, hardly able to believe what was happening as well.

She didn't cry, though, until she realized that Gracia had brought Natasha's puzzle box along, and nothing else.

"Come on," Natasha whispered to Gracia, "let's go home."

Natasha held Gracia, all the way back to Clint's house. She met Clint's gaze on the ride back, and almost sobbed at the buoyant relief reflected back at her in his face.

**she helps the little girl recover, the way she had just weeks before.**

No one said anything as they went inside. Gracia stared openly at the townhouse, quietly awed by the expensive décor and the clean, welcoming feeling of the building. She stopped in the middle of the room, and Natasha could see renewed tears in her eyes.

Clint quietly stepped around the pair of them, allowing them to have this moment to themselves. As he passed Natasha, though, he touched her on the shoulder as if to say _well done._

"Come on, Gracia," Natasha said softly, "let's get you cleaned up."

Natasha led Gracia upstairs to the guest bathroom, and helped her clean off the grime from the boarding house. It was a hauntingly familiar routine, only last time it had been Gracia taking care of Natasha, and the door had been locked, and gangers roamed the halls outside, and they were both very, very unsure of what lay ahead. All of that had changed, now.

Natasha turned on the shower, and helped Gracia out of her clothes. She washed her hair, pointed out a missed patch of soap when Gracia rinsed off, didn't comment on the bruises or the skin stretched a little too tight over her bones. It was a ritual of silence, a vigil welcoming in a new era for the two of them.

It was strange, though, for Natasha to walk through her past that way. Natasha remembered keenly the dull, mechanical way she had done this exact thing, slipped beneath the water and scoured the Landlord's filth from her bones. Maybe it was easier for Gracia, though. Maybe it was exhaustion making her quiet, and not the painful process of realizing what it meant to be human. Maybe she would do so much better than Natasha could ever hope, because she wasn't tearing away the layers and layers of the Landlord's _depravity_ to reveal a small, terrified, pathetic creature underneath. Maybe Gracia would do so much more than Natasha ever could, because she had less damage to heal. Natasha hoped very, very much that that was true.

Gracia didn't cry. After the first few shocked tears over having a home, Gracia's eyes remained dry. There was a numbness in her face that Natasha knew very well, a hollow surprise and confusion at being allowed the chance for such happiness. She expected the little girl to have an anxiety attack over the concept of a home and freedom and _anything_ , same as she had, but Gracia stayed quiet. She fumbled through the motions of getting ready for bed, as though waiting until her mind accepted a stronger emotion.

Natasha handed Gracia one of the thick, wonderful towels on the rack. She wrapped it around herself and stepped out of the shower, then stood on the bathroom mat for a moment. Her long dark hair hung in wet clumps around her face, and the light cream towel made Gracia's shoulders look hunched and defensive. But her eyes, though, they were completely clear. Clear and asking if she could really, really have all of this.

"You dry off, and I'll get you some clothes," Natasha whispered, smiling and putting a hand on Gracia's arm. Gracia nodded, and watched Natasha leave the small bathroom. Natasha hurried as she thumbed through the clothes in her bedroom, and finally settled on one of her own plain t-shirts. She carried it back to the bathroom, and smiled when she saw Gracia drying off.

"Here," she said, holding out the shirt, "put this on when you're dry."

Gracia dried off and got dressed, and then let Natasha brush her hair. Like before, she stayed perfectly still, careful to soak up every bit of love and attention that fell from Natasha's fingers. Natasha worked her hair into a long braid, and then gave Gracia another fierce hug.

"Look," she murmured, pointing at the mirror. Gracia glanced over her shoulder, then turned back, confused. "No, I really want you to look," Natasha said, turning her body so that she could see her reflection full on.

Gracia stared at herself, dark eyes dragging themselves across her features. She was silent, but a slight crinkle formed between her eyebrows.

"That's you, now. And she can be _anything_ ," Natasha whispered, and squeezed her shoulders. Gracia reached up and held Natasha's hand, eyes never leaving her own face.

"That's me," she repeated.

Natasha showed Gracia her room, and privately delighted in the wonder on the little girl's face. The guest room was larger than any of the rooms in the boarding house could hope to be, and thanks to Natasha's efforts, was infinitely more welcoming. Gracia sat on the bed and clenched her hands into the hem of Natasha's shirt, drinking in the book case, the neat bedspread, the tidy dresser, the soft stuffed elephant that sat on her pillow.

"This is mine?" she whispered, like speaking any louder would make it less true.

"Yes," Natasha laughed, "yes, this is all yours."

"Where…where will you sleep?" Gracia asked quietly. Her tone was striving to be casual, but Natasha noticed the way her grip on her hem tightened.

"I normally sleep in my room with Clint. But if you want, I can spend the night in here with you."

Gracia nodded quickly, and her hands relaxed on the shirt. Natasha smiled, and smoothed a hand over her hair.

"Let me change, then I'll be right back, okay?"

"Okay," Gracia said. Natasha could feel her eyes on her back as she walked into her room.

Clint was in already in their bedroom, and was getting ready for bed. He smiled at her, expression tired but pleased.

"How's she doing?"

"She's alright. It—it's going to take a while to be completely adjusted, but…she's alright."

"Good," he said, nodding.

Natasha hesitated in the middle of the room, a little lost as to what to do now. She knew she had to get ready for bed, then she needed to go back into Gracia's room as promised, but her brain was stuttering on what exactly needed to be done. She ran a hand over her face, wondering how she had managed to get this far in the first place.

Natasha heard Clint walk across the room, but she didn't expect him to pull her into a hug. She stayed stiff for a moment, then melted against his chest. It almost hurt, how nice it was to have someone else hold her up.

"You're doing so, so well," he told her, voice soft and proud and the only thing she needed to hear. Tears starting forming in her eyes, but at this point, Natasha didn't even bother to blink them back.

"It doesn't feel real," she confessed, which earned a small laugh from him.

"That will go away, and then you'll realize what amazing things you've just done."

"Thank you for helping me," she said, and she felt him fall still. Natasha waited, aware that Clint had stopped breathing.

"You're welcome," he said, voice catching in the middle. "There has been nothing I've wanted to do more than to help you, and make you happy."

" _Thank you,_ " she repeated, words coming out in shuddery segments as tears stopped up her throat. She gave Clint one last squeeze, then pulled back. "I promised I would sleep with her, tonight," she explained, wiping at her eyes. Clint nodded, running a hand through his hair.

"Go on, then, don't want to keep her waiting."

Natasha smiled at him, then began changing into her pajamas. Before she left, though, Clint caught her hand.

"Hey," he said, then hesitated. "I—I love you, okay?"

Natasha blinked at him, trying to understand the words for a long, slow moment. Then she broke into another wide smile, and held his hand in both of hers.

"Thank you, and…I-I love you."

Those words would have been strange to hear, once. They would have been odd entering her mind, and even more so leaving her tongue. Just a few short weeks ago, they would have spun her into a panic attack that she would barely admit to having, much less the reason why. But now, at three o'clock in the morning, with a little girl in the next room and an impossible accomplishment coming in just a few short hours, they felt right. Natasha had loved him for so long, longer than she had even realized she _knew_ what love meant, that it was hardly a surprise to hear the words coming from her own voice. And it was hardly a surprise to hear them coming from Clint, after the care, the patience, the honest remorse he had all given to her, for her, because of her.

Clint broke into her favorite smile, all little boy blue eyes and honest happiness. He gave her a quick kiss, then touched her arm in a sort of farewell.

"Okay. Okay. Well, then, go ahead. G'night."

"Good night, Clint," she whispered, and left the room.

**she knows now that she can do this.**

The next morning, they all woke up late. Natasha awoke to find Gracia curled into her side, arms wrapped around her as if to never let her go. She managed to convince Gracia to let her go, however, when a real, honest breakfast was promised downstairs.

They moved out of the room, Natasha making a brief detour to pull Clint out of bed. Breakfast was eggs and pancakes, which were made in the sleepy, contented quiet of cooking food and a quiet radio. Gracia watched Clint and Natasha work in the kitchen, but eagerly hopped up to set plate settings for all of them. Clint had a genuine lightness in his eyes when he teased Natasha, and Gracia even cracked a few smiles while they ate. Natasha felt happy, very, very happy for the first time in a long time.

Things weren't perfect, though, not yet. Gracia was still too thin and too quiet, and never let herself stray too close to Clint, but Natasha didn't mind. She deserved time to heal, just like Clint and Natasha had.

After breakfast, they all piled onto the couch to watch the human interest news show Clint liked. Natasha rested her head on his shoulder, and Gracia curled up on Natasha's lap as a cheery reporter discussed the best barbecue restaurant in the country.

The raid on the boarding house would be happening soon. The Landlord would be caught and the girls arrested, but ultimately freed, and Natasha would have finished what she started. Natasha's breath caught at the thought of having caused so much, as the consequences that were sure to follow. She made herself inhale, and then let it back out. She could do this. She could face whatever it was the Landlord's lawyers had in store for her, she could handle whatever came up after that.

Natasha settled onto the couch, and stroked Gracia's hair, and held Clint's hand. She wasn't interested in that, just now. She was more focused on enjoying the fact that she had made her own sort of normal.


End file.
